Lacrimosa Dies Illa Tearful That Day
by MischiefManagedAndFishCustard
Summary: It might surprise people to know that the man once known as the Opera Ghost finally settled down for the first time in his life many years after the burning of the Populaire. But it's sad how even the immortal genius can ruin the happiness he craved...
1. Chapter 1

Okay, so yeah, this'll only be ten chapters or so. Just a random idea I had...Thought I should start a short one to get me into the swing of fanfiction again. It's going to be an unusual story, I'm sorry if you don't like it.

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**Chapter One.**

It was odd that the soft sprinkling of rain that misted down over their small garden was similar to the one that three years ago had welcomed his newborn son. Erik looked out the window now at the bluebells, lilies and other flowers that seemed to gaze upwards to swallow the welcomed water. Cuttings of those very same blooms had decorated the room that his wife was in now. He had wanted her to feel as if she were in a garden, wrapped in the soothing scents of Lavender amongst the other flowers. He didn't want her to feel the same panic he was enduring.

_Well the flowers idea had been a lovely thought,_ the young midwife had tried to comfort him as she took all of them from the room and placed them on the kitchen table – now a jumble of pinks and mauves and blues and yellows lay in a disarray, in a beautiful mess. _But it's the Doctor you see – they irritate his allergies. But perhaps while the Madame is being tended to, you and the little one could create a nice bouquet to welcome the infant? Yes, that would be nice now, wouldn't it?_

He had waved her away distractedly, knowing that the clueless chit meant well but her patronising amiability put him in a bad humour. She had stood for a few awkward seconds waiting for a reply, but had then shuffled back in when she heard the Madame cry out sharply.

He had been forbidden to enter the room where the birth was to take place. Word had spread after his son had been born that for the Doctor's safety he should remain in another room. He swirled the amber coloured liquid in his glass absentmindedly, but looked down when he felt his trousers being tugged. A temporary salve curled around his contained silent hysteria when his son's golden eyes met his own.

"Up, up!" little Gabriel bleated, waving his arms about.

He bent down and with his one free arm he scooped his son up and balanced him on his hip. Then he took another sip of his drink and comforted his little boy when the sound of his Mother crying in pain flared up again, the child hiding his face in his Father's waistcoat.

He supposed it was suitable that the same weather accompanied both births, for it was the same dread, the same terror that bubbled within him about the possibilities…His face twitched, thinking of what lay beneath his mask that covered half of his face. He placed down his glass and held his son properly, wrapping his arms around his tiny body tightly. Lord, the utter relief he had felt first holding his son, his fingers tracing his perfect and unblemished face, his shock of dark curls, his full nose, his chubby cheeks, his mouth…He had started crying, the tears pouring freely as the baby suckled his finger. He had a child, a son, an heir. His monstrosity had not passed down, he was beautiful and flawless.

But his wife had wanted another child, a sibling, and to his disgruntlement and her excitement she fell with child again. Why tempt fate again? Why ask for more when they had perfection as it was? There is an old Greek term – _hubris._ In ancient literature the characters were often punished by the Gods for having too much of it. It means excessive pride or self-confidence…Why did he have this word etched into him whenever he heard his wife's cries?

He decided to take the midwife's advice and he moved over to the table with his son to create a bouquet for his wife. He sorted through the flowers and his son helped him pick out the wild heather and sprigs of baby's breath, her favourite combination.

_"Bijou,"_ he said patiently (calling his beloved son by one of his many pet names of endearment he bestowed on him), "We do not _eat_ the flowers…" and he gently tapped the toddler's hand and retrieved the flowers from his mouth.

The child gurgled and clapped his hands and for a moment, just for a moment, he thought that maybe this would all turn out adequately. He had done countless research and he could not find any definite proof from the medical text books he procured that physical disfigurement _necessarily_ passes from one generation to the other. Yes…Perhaps his wife's God would have mercy. A touch of excitement fluttered through him. He would be content with another son of course, but oh how he would love a daughter…Gabriel was all rough and tumble, mischievous, loud, curious to a falt which caused him to fall into countless amounts of trouble…How pleasing it would be to have a gentle little girl…

His wife. He thought of his good and obedient wife who spent her days when she was free of her duties tending to her garden, her fingers creating a secret world where plants of all colours entwined throughout their little plot of land, with vines of strawberries climbing the wooden archway, and around the back door chickens would happily peck at the seed she would scatter over the ground before the little terror of the house would chase them back into their coop, laughing and falling into the dust like the terrible imp he was. He was an odd one, he was – he took great joy in intimidating his Mother's chickens and hugging the cat too tightly yet he would often be found staring in complete awe at peculiarly everyday things such as a small ladybug crawling up an Autumn leaf, the tiniest mysteries of the universe rendering him immobile.

Sometimes when he thought about his life and ignored the fact that she was not in love with him and he was not in love with her and that their marriage was just one of convenience - for her it provided a roof over her head with pretty gowns and food to eat and for him he was able to pretend he had the devoted family he had always dreamed of and forget his past - he felt he could almost remain happy. This must be what normal people take for granted, he thought whenever he helped cook meals with his wife, whenever he threw his boisterous son in the air and caught him, whenever he bought a trinket home from the shops and made his wife gasp and peck his cheek with a kiss of gratitude…

This must be what normal people take for granted.

His ears caught the first sign of this life of contentment crumbling after the last cry of pain from his wife in the closed room. There was that moment of silence, a low mumbling from the doctor, he heard the midwife murmur soothing words to his wife.

The baby was born.

He was walking towards the door when he distinctly heard a terrified, "No, no, please don't let him in. Please Doctor, just for the moment!"

He heard the lock begin to turn but he caught the doorknob in time and twisted it open roughly, thrusting it forward. He shoved the doctor aside as he stepped forward to explain and saw his wife covered in sweat and tears propped up by pillows in the bed, cradling her newborn child as tightly as she could in her exhausted state.

The stupid little midwife bent down, holding the woman's arm protectively and he gazed at her, staring at the sharp look in her youthful eyes.

"Sir, your wife –" she began.

But he interrupted her, just as his son tottered in the room behind him and ran past, clinging to the sheets to pull himself up to his beloved Mother.

"Give me the child," he said coldly, moving forward just a few steps, "Chara, we had an agreement. Let me see the child."

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	2. Chapter 2

Thank you all very much, your reviews were awesome, brightened my day.

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****Chapter Two.**

Miriam was young, but she had assisted in many births since childhood – her Mother had given birth to thirteen children and she was the oldest (and the only daughter). So she would have thought that by now this would all be the same to her – but it wasn't. She was always on edge, always fretful, always dreading the worst possible scenario – stillbirth.

She hid these emotions of course, forced herself not to remember the one case where a pair of twins had both perished. She had stayed in the room with the young woman for hours afterwards, it had been dawn when she finally managed to pry the cold dead children away from the woman. She had always been taught never to care too much, never to position yourself too deeply into each birth.

The elderly midwife who had taught her had told that sternly when she caught Miriam shaking after a traumatic birth. _Don't you understand girl? For if you don't, get out of my sight at once and go work in a flower shop. We don't need the likes of you here, we need the strong ones, the one's who are made of rock, the women here – they don't need the weak as water ones, that's what their husbands are for._ She had replied in her fit of fright that she couldn't help it, that she had tried her best but even that had not been good enough. The Midwife had smiled faintly, _oh, you're a pretty one, it's never the pretty ones that should be in this line of work. Your heart is a curse, you realise that? God should have only given you your beauty, for beautiful ones don't understand pain. They wash away like crystals in a snow storm, but it's the homely ones who know how to deal with pain and death. You've been given everything on a silver platter by society, so you expect nature will be as kind as well. But nature will dish out no such favour, you understand? Nature is cruel by nature._ She had stood there, letting those words sink in and had finally replied she understood what she meant. She would try to improve. The midwife had looked at her with such doubt, that Miriam only realised later it had not been her words that had made her grow up but that _one_ dubious look.

So here she was, stroking and soothing this young woman Chara Morreaux as she pushed and cried, trying to give birth.

She smiled encouragingly, "You're doing so well, Madame. You have a beautiful little boy out there – such unique eyes! And soon he will have a sibling. Your husband will be so proud."

The woman looked at her in panic, and a strange feeling crept over Miriam – the fear wasn't all just for this birth. The woman stammered as she took her hand, squeezing it till it turned a sickly white, "My husband," she panted, "If _anything_ goes wrong, please…Please don't let him in…"

Miriam looked at her oddly, "But…" she stopped when Madame Morreaux began to cry, and for the sake of calming the woman down, with her other hand she patted her hand.

"Girl," the Doctor at the edge of the bed said, "I need you here. The head is crowning."

Miriam just managed to pry her hand away and rushed to where she was supposed to be.

"Push Madame, push!" she encouraged, but was only answered with tears. She marched back over to the side of the woman, and her voice was as firm as iron as she ordered, _"Stop_ this silliness woman! You need to _push!"_

Madame Morreaux's pale face turned and gazed at Miriam, her straight brown hair saturated with her own sweat and her hazel eyes dilated. Her mouth parted as a silent moan of pain passed through her and she whispered, "But she's safe within me…"

Miriam's brow creased in confusion but she did not need to argue further for when another spasm hit the woman an involuntary push went through her and with a strangled cry, the baby slid into the blanket the Doctor held.

Something was not right the moment of birth, she did not even need to hear him say anything, only had to see the contortion of what was usually his blank and emotionless face, and the tremor of his hand as he cut the umbilical cord.

_Oh God, the baby's dead!_

She rushed over and looked down, but had to steel herself from letting out a cry of her own. Her hands went straight to her mouth as the Doctor uttered every expletive imaginable. Miriam barely noticed the poor Mother trying to prop herself up, all she could see was the pale little face, blue veins popping around the child's eyes, the skin – her hand reached to touch it gently, could that _be_ skin? It looked too fragile, it looked like brain tissue or…Or…She tried to look away, tried to erase the picture of a living infant corpse, tried to scrape the memory of every marred curve, ever split, every blemish from her brain.

"Wh-what do we do?" she asked the Doctor beseechingly, "Tell me what to do!"

"Take it!" he said, his voice breaking as he shivered holding the child out to her, but she backed away a few steps, "For God's sake woman, I've done my service, _take it!"_

_It's never the pretty ones that should be in this line of work._

Those words hit the girl so hard that she had to blink a few times to catch herself. A wave of shame overcame her and with a nod she took the child from the Doctor.

"It's a girl Madame," she forced her voice to remain calm and soothing, "There's just…Here…Perhaps you should see…"

She came over to the woman's side as the Doctor took care of the placenta that came in a rush and she nestled the bundle in the woman's arms.

"Oh…Oh my poor darling one…" the mother crooned, her forehead resting on the newborn's, her tears scattering over the babe, "I'm so, so sorry…"

A thought flitted through Miriam's mind – it was almost as if the woman had been _expecting_ it. And her uneasy and grumpy husband who was prowling the hallway had too…But…How could they? The woman had said her husband had been in a war, that that is why he wore a mask, it covered an injury. Injuries don't pass through to the next generation…It didn't add up…

They heard footsteps and Madame Morreaux's sorrow quickly turned to blind fear, "No, no, please don't let him in. _Please_ Doctor, just for the moment!"

The Doctor hurriedly made for the door to lock it, but it was thrust open and he was shoved aside as the husband stormed in.

He surveyed the scene, surveyed his distressed wife and the knowledge seemed to sink in without surprise.

"Sir, your wife…"

The wife held onto her child tighter, nobody really noticed when her small one toddled into the room excitedly and clambered on to the bed. Everyone was just staring at the husband, till he walked forward.

"Give me the child Chara, we had an agreement. Let me see the child." He moved to take the baby but she held her daughter tighter.

It was almost a protective instinct, something animalistic, like a lioness guarding her cub when he moved to take her and the woman hissed, "Lay one finger of harm on my baby and I swear…" she did not finish the sentence, but the look of maternal defense tore away her previous pleading tears and her lips curled back, revealing her teeth.

"It's no use," Miriam said softly, "He needs to see his daughter. But I promise Madame, he won't hurt her."

She gently pried the infant from her arms and held it herself, "You will not hold her yet Monsieur, first you look."

He seemed surprised that the midwife dared to be so forward with him, but he finally nodded and came over, bending down to look at his newest child. Tentatively he held his hand out, his fingers gently tracing her deformity, and then his thumb caressed the tufts of her dark hair.

"What have we done?" he murmured, sounding lost and broken, "Chara, I tried to tell you…"

"It doesn't matter," his wife spat back, "Do you hear? She's _mine_ and I won't let you –"

It was her fault, Miriam knew the moment the baby was snatched from her. She had lightened her hold on the infant, accepting the husband was calm during this chaos. God, she had been so _stupid!_

She was chasing him out of the room, calling his name as he fled. But he was too fast and the door of the bathroom slammed shut and was locked before she had a chance to reach him. She started pounding on the door, giving in to hysteria herself at that moment, her hands became bruised at the intensity she hit the door.

"What are you doing? WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" she screamed, but did not have to wait too long as she heard the sound of running water.

_Nature is cruel by nature._

The words almost made her homicidal. This was _not_ nature, this _needed_ to be stopped. As she hit the door, her terror mingled with imagining that she was clawing the eyes out of that presumptuous elderly crone who would _dare_ judge her capability and the Doctor who would diminish a child's worth and call her _it_ - but herself most of all, for not being fast enough.

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	3. Chapter 3A

Thank you, you two!!

Passed Over, it's funny that you said that it'd be harder on a girl, considering what I wrote in this chapter.

Hot4Gerry, hi, yeah, the past will be filled in. I'm always a fan of filling in things.

I guess I should have started the story in a different order...But it can't be helped now.

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**Chapter 3A.**

It wasn't _fair._

Those childish words had been one of the first things Chara inwardly screamed after she was given her daughter. Children should be born perfect, children should be born sweet and beautiful, a parent should not have this feeling that their world is crumbling as they hold their newborn, knowing that the child's years of happiness will be scarce. The world is cruel. Each beat of Chara's heart gave her a new slur that her daughter would eventually be given – _monster, demon, hideous…_She rocked her daughter in misery trying to erase the future she would have by replacing those taunts with labels of her own – _lovely, beautiful, **mine.**_

Before she heard the footsteps of the man she was married to, she had a moment to reflect on how she even came to be here, the wife of a virtual stranger and the Mother of a son who seemed to have been offered every advantage life deemed important, by God – attractiveness, an intelligence beyond his age, an insatiable curiosity and such charisma – and a Daughter who seemed would have nothing. Oh, _why?_ If she were to be cursed with such an affliction as this _why_ must she have been born a _girl?_ A boy was expected to have potential and grew into a young man who could be independent and make his own way into the world – a girl was born chained to the man she called Father and grew into a young woman where the chain would be passed to her husband. Women depended on men to survive their whole lives – but with such a spoiled face, how would her daughter possibly attract a husband? How would she survive?

Chara had been born and raised in Paris until twelve years of age when her widowed Father (because of business reasons) had taken her younger sister and herself to Holland to live. It was there that she fell in love with gardening after seeing the magic carpet of flowers that adorned all the parks. Her younger sister had been enthralled by theatre and parties and champagne, but she had been more than content just to wander those parks by herself, sketching the tulips and marigolds and every other bloom imaginable. She wasn't particularly talented of course, but capturing their beauty wasn't her aim. It was so she could remember how they were arranged so she could try and replicate it at home in her own garden. It took her breath away that with mere seeds that were no bigger than a grain of sand the Lord gave them the opportunity to play creator.

It was when she was twenty years of age that the sound of a haunting violinist accompanied her visits to a particular park. Music did not rule her life as it did her sister (or was it really the _men_ at those music gatherings that ruled her sister?) but she appreciated a pretty tune as much as the next person. It must have flowed into her unconsciously, for she found after awhile that she did not visit any other parks – infact she rarely meandered around the flowers anymore. She found herself sitting on a bench, her drawing paper and her pencils lying forgotten by her side as the music lulled her. Mournful music that seemed to tug at her, invisible strings tying her to the musician every time she heard him.

She actually didn't know if the musician _was_ infact a _he_ for she had never seen the figure. She appreciated his music from afar, never even thought to venture to see the one responsible. That was until his music ceased. One morning (after approximately a year of listening to him) he just was not there and the music did not return for two weeks. Chara became fretful, like a lost dog, wandering around in a state of agitation. She was ashamed when she realised she had become – in a way – _addicted_ to this stranger.

She had not been as adept as her sister in learning the language, thus her days were spent mostly solitary. After cooking for her Father and sister and carrying out the everyday chores, she would meander the gardens of Amsterdam or perhaps go to mass. Without any human friend to accompany her, she took solace in the Lord and the saints. In a way this musician had been her first friend in Holland that was not of divine means. Though, she liked to think of him as an Angel, unseeing but there. But when the music stopped, she felt so incredibly helpless and alone. She did not know what to do. She couldn't ask if anybody had seen him, for she did not even know what this person looked like and she was not very good with the language…So she did the only thing she thought she could do. In the massive cathedral that she went to each day to sit through mass, she lit a candle for this unknown Angel of hers.

She did not really expect anything to happen, but two days later when she arrived at the park the music had returned. The musician was back! But – was it the same musician? For the music seemed different – restrained, controlled, unemotional. Her heart plummeted when she realised he must have been replaced.

She followed the music anyway, until she found a lone cloaked man in a corner, swaying as he played the violin. There was nothing remarkable about him except for one thing – under a fedora that was pulled low, a slither of white masked half of his face. She stepped forward curiously, was the mask in some way indicative of something in his act? No, it didn't seem to be…She stood in front of him and unlaced her purse, scattering a few coins in the open violin case. She felt pity for him, it wasn't his fault he was nowhere near as good as the other violinist – he was still above average after all, just not a maestro – and he must have injured his face in some way. There were a lot of older war veterans that begged for money or food on the streets, perhaps he was one of them?

She turned to walk away when she noticed something odd – she had assumed he was swaying to the music when she had been a short distance away from him, but it was only now she realised he was having trouble maintaining his balance. And the part of his unmasked face looked so incredibly pale – and his fingers holding the bow were trembling. He was ill!

It was when she realised this that she heard a soft groan from the man and his legs buckled from underneath him as he collapsed onto the pavement. She ran forward and bent down, taking him by the shoulders and not knowing what to do, she rubbed his back gently with her hand as he vomited. He remained crouched for a few moments, obviously humiliated and muttered something in Dutch.

She could not completely understand what he was saying – it sounded as if he was saying _get away from me_ – but she couldn't be sure.

"I' droevig m, I can' t begrijpt. I' m het Frans." _I'm sorry, I can't understand. I'm French._

He looked up at her then and to her surprise he answered in her native tongue fluently, with a hiss _"Get away from me!"_

She did not move for a moment proud of herself that she had actually understood the Dutch correctly in the first place, but then cried out "Oh!" and moved back at once.

She stared at him as he tried to stagger to his feet but he wavered again and she moved back over to him soothingly, "Don't be silly, you are in no fit state to move. Please, let me help you."

She could see he had to ponder that for a little while, then nodded reluctantly. She bent down and carefully placed his violin in the case, closed it, tucked it under her arm and took his arm so he could lean against her.

"You should not be out when you're so sick Monsieur Maestro," she scolded good-naturedly, "I'll take you home. Where do you live?"

He mumbled something abashed and she had to look at him confused, "The…The cathedral? Is that what you said?" She had been distraught she would never hear him again only just before this morning and all that time he had been at the place she went to everyday, and the place where she had lit a candle for him!

He sighed, obviously talking was an exertion for him but he answered in a slur, "Underneath the cathedral. The priests let me stay there…My music entrances them…"

She paused before she asked, "Have you been playing here for nearly over a year?"

He was so weak she had to pull his arm around the back of her neck and take most of his weight. She struggled for a moment until she got used to his bulk and then began to walk again. She blushed a little as his head flopped on to her shoulder and could feel his fretful breathing, but she could not stop helping him now.

"Mmm…" was his answer.

She replied, still trying to be cheerful, "Oh, you poor thing, you _must_ be sick. I've been listening to you since you began playing here and today you just sounded so uninspired."

She managed to lead him the few blocks to the cathedral and with her foot kick open a back door that led down the stairs, deeper and deeper into the caverns of the cathedral. She expected it to be pitch black, but a mass of lit candles were scattered around the large area. As soon as she reached the place the man collapsed to the floor and with his remaining strength he crawled over to his meagre pallet where he pulled down the blanket and fell on his back. His hands wavered as they went to cover his face and she could hear the tremor in his voice when he begged, "Please, over in the corner there is a small bottle. Please pass it to me."

She did as he said and handed the bottle of medicine to him, uncorking it. He gratefully took it and drank a mouthful. He gave it back to her as he coughed, revolted at the taste but then said, "Thank you girl. Take the…" he stopped, breathing hard, then continued, "Take the coins you gave me in the park. You deserve them back for helping me. Then go."

"I'm not taking your money," she said quietly, "Please, is there any way I can help you?"

"No…Just go…Oh _God!_" he moved to his side and she ran forward quickly, grabbing a bowl where he emptied the contents of his stomach.

Immense pity surged through her when she thought of him left alone here and so she did as he told her. She left, but returned later that afternoon with a bucket full of fresh water and a covered bowl of hot soup she had made. He was too weak to argue and so bending down she drizzled cool water over his feverished forehead with a towel drenched from the bucket she had brought, the cold beads making him croon with contentment.

"Silly man," she sighed, dabbing the half of his unmasked face gently, "Why are you down here all by yourself?"

She knew he was passing in and out of consciousness, but she stayed with him till he was lucid enough that she could help him drink the chicken soup that she had made. He lay back down afterwards and fell into a deep sleep. After she wiped his mouth she stood up and finally left him.

"Why are you helping me?" he asked her the third day that she came, "I am a complete stranger, I could be dangerous…I…"

She gazed at him calmly, caressing his unmasked cheek with her forefinger and thumb tenderly, "What kind of a person would I be to have left you? And technically I am obliged to you anyway."

He looked at her curiously and asked her what she meant.

She laughed, "I was entertained by your music for a whole year before giving you some coins. I am very much overdue with payment," she then paused, "You have no idea how lonely I have been here in Holland. I barely know the language, I…I'm sorry, I'm being dreadfully pathetic. But your music was one thing that kept me company. I only ventured to the park because of you after awhile, and I didn't even realise it. You have been a great friend to me, Monsieur Maestro. I could even call you my Angel."

She was surprised to feel him moving away from her and hear him bark, "I am no Angel, unless you mean an Angel of Death. You do not know what I have been capable of doing in my past."

"Do you mean – mean the war? Your face – it was injured there?" she asked.

He looked at her thoughtfully, "Yes," he finally replied bitterly, "A _war._ That's right."

She nodded understandingly, "War is a horrible thing – what people are forced to do for the sake of country and honour…But tell me, you are French. How long have you been here?"

"I left Paris quite a few years ago," he closed his eyes tiredly, "I travelled around Europe for quite some time before I settled underneath this cathedral a year and a half ago. And that's all I want to talk about concerning that."

Chara nodded and stood to leave, then said before she left, "I understand you think you have done ghastly things, but your music is truly beautiful to me."

She could not comprehend why he muttered under his breath, "Yes, the _music._ It's always the _music_ that they find beautiful," but she left nonetheless without a further word.


	4. Chapter 3B

Thanks you guys very, very much...Thank you, you brighten my day.

Alright, um, yeah...Sorry to say, it's going to be a few installments of filling in the past, but it involves Erik and just MAYBE Erik getting shagged eventually, so I'm sure you won't complain, haha.

I'm sort of in the middle of uni exams and my last one's on Tuesday, so HOPEFULLY there'll be another instalment on Wednesday or Thursday. I suppose I should study and put that first before my fic...

Please leave a review...

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**Chapter 3B.**

"Oh for goodness sake Chara, pull _harder!"_

Chara sighed, continuing to tie the laces of her sister's corset but adding a bit more pressure, "Why are you even wearing such a thing anyway?"

Marianne giggled and took some fruit from the breakfast tray the maid left. As she bit into a cherry she said, "Isn't it lovely? The blue matches my eyes, and the little pink rosebuds embroidered on it are so beautiful. Paulus said he thought of me straightaway when he saw it, he brought it all the way from Paris on his trip, just for me."

Chara dropped the laces in burnt shock and through the reflection of the mirror Marianne could see her look of moral horror and was thoroughly amused by it, "Oh Chara, you're such a _prude._ You really should see your face, you look as outraged as that nun that reprimanded me for holding Jacques's hand on the street last year."

Chara spun her sixteen year old sister to face her, "Why would he buy you a _corset?_ Marianne, stop laughing! _Marianne!"_

"Because my lovely sister, he wants to see me _in_ it. Oh you're such a sweet one, no man has ever dared kiss you, has he?" she wriggled her hips, "Oh _do_ hurry, I need to be ready by ten."

Chara stood frozen and shook her head, "I'm not going to help you dress when this disgusting pervert just wants to rip it off tonight when he's succeeded in giving you too much wine!"

Marianne sighed impatiently and went over to a drawer, opening it. She pulled out a dark blue velvet rectangular box then came back to her sister. She then opened it, "Look Chara."

Chara gazed down at the amethyst and crystal bracelet and touched it lightly with her fingers.

"Look at it. _Real Venetian crystals_ Chara. He's going to marry me, as soon as he talks to Papa. He promised. Why would he spend so much money on me if he didn't love me?" she smiled and then squeezed Chara's hand, "I really do love him Chara and I know he loves me too."

Chara pondered her sister for a moment. She seemed to exude beauty. While other girls spent hours primping their hair, Marianne had natural tight golden curls that encased around her heart-shaped face and fell down her back. She had such a pretty smile and light-blue coloured eyes, the shade of forget-me-nots. The trouble had begun when she had turned thirteen. All of a sudden the little child had nearly completely blossomed into a woman, but the naïveté had stayed the same. Their Father was always focusing on business and so it was left to Chara to chase away the unfavourable men that only had one thing on their minds. The problem with Marianne was that she thought the one thing they wanted was her heart. Chara had tried to ask for her Father's help, but even he was bewitched by his youngest daughter's sweet smile.

"Ah Chara," he had smiled touching her cheek, "It's unfortunate you didn't take after your Mother as well, for then you'd understand the need to have attention when you've been so blessed with looks. But we mustn't be jealous, mustn't we?"

She had looked at him in astonishment, "I'm not jealous! Papa, I'm worried for her!"

His smile had deepened, "It's alright to wish you were as pretty as your sister Chara, but you have good points too and don't you forget that. You run this household as efficiently as a proper little lady of a house and I couldn't have survived after your Mother passed without you taking care of both your sister and I and comforting her. And as much as I adore your little sister, it is nice to be able to talk on subjects that have more depth than birthday parties and gowns. She's an innocent little thing Chara, you don't have to concern yourself over her, she's not interested in men's affections, just in being admired. And how can that hurt?"

So she looked at her sister's hope as she held the gift this man had given her. Perhaps her feelings _were_ of mere jealousy? Marianne certainly looked the part of the typical French young woman, beautiful and very social, appreciating fashion and pretty things. She had that touch of foreign mystery that drove the Dutch men wild. Chara definitely did not approve of men taking advantage of her body, but he did buy her this bracelet and many other gifts. What right did she have to stand in the way of her sister's happiness if he wanted to marry her as Marianne had said he did?

"Alright, fine," she conceded and went back to tying her sister's laces, "But before you go we need to have another word about proper decorum when it comes to behaving around handsome men."

Marianne giggled some more, "Yes Mother Superior."

Chara wondered if she _was_ as bad as that nun that had been harsh with Marianne those months ago, and something pained her in the pit of her stomach, that she had never been given the spark that was needed to enjoy life because she had not been born as beautiful as some.

It had been a week or two that she had been with the musician. A fortnight of spending hours with him each day, talking to him, caring for him, supplying his food. It was odd, he still seemed surprised each day whenever he saw her, the look in his eyes almost confused at her appearance. Soon he could sit up without feeling dizzy, propped against pillows and the wall. On one particular occasion while she mended his blanket with thread she brought and a needle, he was well enough to play his violin. Not for long of course, but she enjoyed the little amount of music he offered her.

She was not an exquisite woman, she knew this. Her sister had been given every single drop of beauty in the gene pool, and she was just left with the dainty figure her Mother had had. Her light straight brown hair fell down her back without the waves or elegance Marianne had and she would never think to show off her body in the shameless way her sister did. No perfume, no rouge, no face paint would ever adorn her body. But she felt herself blush whenever she was close to the masked stranger, she could sense his eyes flit over her but she had no idea what his verdict was, if she was favourable to him or repulsive. And why should it even matter? She had never cared before, why did her sister calling her a prude with such pity and amusement mingled together bother her so much? Why –?

"Something is bothering you."

She turned to the masked man, propped up by pillows and watching her. She blushed at his look of thoughtfulness and continued with her sewing.

"It's nothing, really…" she tried to lighten her tone, "I just…My sister called me something and it troubles me."

He tilted his head curiously, "You have a sister?" then he paused, "What did she say to you?"

"Yes I have a sister. She's every man's dream, she's exquisite and flirtatious, but she's my nightmare. She's only a child, with childish dreams of meeting her Prince. There's going to be trouble, I can sense it. She called me a prude and I believe she may be right," she explained.

He said nothing to this but reached for his violin and for a few minutes played what he knew was her favourite piece. As he paused he said absentmindedly, "Tell me Chara, why should you be troubled over a virtue – and yes, chastity and modesty are virtues – your sister has accused you of having, when she seems…Rather insignificant."

"Modesty has never given me any favours," she could not hide the bitterness in her words so she tried to balance it out by adding, "Nobody ever notices me. I know that may sound selfish or childish, but to be admired just for one moment…" she finally gave up and shrugged.

"Chara, I am much older than you so heed my words. Frivolous people without a thought in their heads have never served any purposes. But the compassionate people, they are the ones to unlock cages and recognize a poor soul," for some reason he laughed quietly at this and rested further down in his pallet, "I would rather feel the softness of your hands as you tend to me than gaze at your sister's pretty face. Any man can be afforded that luxury, but your…" he fidgeted nervously as if he had said far too much and closed his eyes. The conversation was finished.

She watched him for a little while as she sewed, then when she had finished mending the blanket she moved forward and sat beside him, on the mattress. She went to pull the blanket over him but firstly touched his forehead. She set the blanket aside when she realised he was still hot and her hand caressed the half of his unmasked cheek. She gently straightened the wig that had gone askew

He liked her hands. He liked her gentle, cool hands. She had never thought them particularly impressive before. They should have been smoother, but the years of darning and mending had entrenched small scars into her flesh. Her Father was not poor, they had a maid, but she had liked to do her share of the work. Every pinprick was a fond memory – sitting by the fire and sewing a button onto her Father's waistcoat while he read her Homer's _Iliad_ or the story of Helen of Troy in his scarce moments of free time, or making readjustments to a gown Marianne bought for a party as she excitedly told her about the details.

She unbuttoned the masked man's shirt to decrease his heat but her hand clasped over her mouth when she saw the abundance of scars over his chest. Her hands traced them as tears rolled down her cheeks, then without thinking she bent down, her lips tracing the marks. She knew by instinct that his scars were not the same as hers. They were not from fond memories. Had he _ever_ experienced fond memories?

She raised herself back up, and humiliation flooded through her when his eyes were open and he was staring at her. He had not been asleep at all!

"I…I'm sorry…I…" she tried to stutter.

But he ignored her pleas and said angrily, "I am not some broken toy that you can pity girl." He tried to move away from her, but she held his shoulders firmly.

"I don't pity you,"

"Oh of course you don't," he spat back and rolled his eyes at her confusion.

"I don't pity you," she repeated firmly, "I pity an injured dog that is hit by a carriage, I pity the widow who has no money so she works all day every day and barely has enough to feed her children, but I don't pity you."

She continued to trace his scars gently and he closed his eyes as if giving in and allowing this affectionate contact, "When was the last time somebody has been kind to you?" she rested her head on his chest and stroked his dark hairs spattered with hints of grey. She could hear the beat of his heart, and she let it lull her into a doze, barely sensing that he himself was stroking her hair.

She jolted awake much later, his arm limp around her waist and he stirred awake himself when she moved.

"I must go," she said softly as she gathered her things, "You're getting well, you just need to make sure you rest and soon you will be performing again. I'll come by tomorrow."

He looked up at her and with his hand he took hers and gently kissed her knuckle. She smiled down at him and then bent down, to give him a peck on the mouth. But…Well, for some reason as their lips met she lingered. She had never before kissed a man and she was surprised at the softness of his mouth. She tilted her head hesitantly, and they deepened the kiss. Her face was pure crimson as she finally pulled back and muttered, "Till tomorrow…"

The next day she returned to find he was not under the cathedral. Worriedly she waited around and asked a priest who walked past if he had seen him. The priest answered that "Erik" (she had tended to him, fed him, _kissed_ him and only now she knew his name!) had gone to the park with his violin.

She fled to the park but could find no sign of him. She rushed up and down the pathways, ignoring the flowers and the gay passerbyers until she was worn out. Images of him collapsed somewhere haunted her as she slumped on the park bench. It was too soon, he had made that mistake before when she first found him. He had come back _too soon!_

She blinked as a flower suddenly fell on her lap, a tulip of baby pink and she turned her head in startlement when the familiar violin sounded in her ear. She stood at once and wasn't sure whether she should laugh or be angry as he performed behind the park bench.

"You had me worried to death!" she accused.

But with a smirk he continued to play.

"You shouldn't be picking these!"

But still he continued to play.

"Don't ignore me! You should be resting still!"

She threw up her hands in exasperation when he continued to play. "Fine, we'll I'm done with you." She raised her chin and walked off purposely. But her musician followed her and she rolled her eyes, ignoring him as he circled around her.

"I am very much obliged to you, Mademoiselle, if you would do me the honour of letting me cook dinner for you," he said.

"Oh, so now you can talk. Favours, favours, favours, that's all I ever hear from you," she frowned mockingly, "I will have to check my schedule."

The lively music he had been playing suddenly turned melodramatic and dismal, as if all the colours of the world were bleeding onto the pavement. She laughed, "You'll get no sympathy from me!"

"Oh come now girl, be kind to the poor man," an amused passerbyer called out and she turned around alarmed when she saw a small crowd of laughing people had amalgamated together, watching this merry interlude from their usual humdrum.

She bowed her head in embarrassment but could not contain her laughter when from the melancholy music of rejection, a tremor of hope passed through.

She turned to her devoted musician and murmured, "Dinner would be satisfactory," she raised her eyebrow when the music began to increase in cheerfulness, "But don't get too excited for you will have to meet my Father." She shook her head in surrender and mirth when this did not seem to dampen the music in the slightest.

"We will talk about the details later, I must go," she stood on her tiptoes and pecked his cheek, whispering, "I am glad the musician has returned and is well again," and she quickly turned on her heel, rushing to the gate of the park to exit.

Chara turned before she left and raised the tulip to her nose, smelling the sweet scent and curtsied after he bowed to her from his small distance away from her. The small crowd clapped and cheered at this happy ending and she quickly disappeared.

Her footsteps felt light and a warm feeling rose in her stomach, one of hope. Things were going to change.

She twirled around as she entered her home with a smile on her face she could not conceal. Erik's voice was articulate, intelligent, he sounded well educated. He and her Father would have plenty to talk about and her Father would admire a war veteran.

The pink tulip fell to the floor forgotten when she heard sobbing from her sister's room. She rushed up the stairs and entered without knocking.

"Marianne!" she said at once as panic flared through her when she saw her young sister huddled by her bed, her hands covering her face as she cried brokenly. She went over at once and knelt down beside her, scooping her into her arms.

"It's – it's ended," little Marianne sobbed, "He laughed at me, he said he was never going to talk to Papa and that he couldn't believe I ever thought he actually would. Chara, he said he loved me! He _did!"_

"Oh love," Chara held her close comfortingly, kissing her hair softly, "He's obviously scum, he doesn't deserve you."

But this only seemed to make it worse and Marianne started to hyperventilate, "He has a wife…He has a wife…"

Tears started to prick Chara's eyes - her poor, foolish beautiful sister. She had feared something like this would happen. Anger surged within her at her Father's blind oblivion to the situation. Yes, Marianne was innocent, that was exactly the whole problem!

Marianne shuddered, clutching her stomach, "I feel so sick…I've been vomiting all morning…" she quickly lunged to a pail she must have had sent up and was sick at once.

Fear had frozen Chara and she stared at her, suspicions arising. Marianne was barely ill…

"There, there," she heard herself saying soothingly and her spirit seemed to hover over the room as she stood and led Marianne to her bed, pulling the blanket and sheets down. She helped her undress and ignored the scratches and marks on her flesh from a cruel lover's frenzied desire as she helped her into her nightdress. She pushed her gently down and crooned softly that she would take care of her and to just sleep. Marianne obeyed like a child, at once pleased to know that her sister would once again solve everything.

Chara sat cross-legged on her sister's bed, brushing her sister's hair as she dozed. Marianne held the pink tulip in her sleeping grasp that Chara had dropped downstair and brought back up when she had gone to fetch some water. Pink was her favourite colour and she had spoke of a gown in a boutique she had seen that was the same shade. From time to time she emptied her stomach, but that was alright, because Chara was here to clean up and offer soothing words and a gentle hand. While she thought of gowns and parties in her ignorance, Chara thought of what to do with the baby that possibly grew within the girl's womb. She was barely a woman. She had begged her Father to buy her a kitten the other day for God's sake.

All thoughts of Chara's war hero were banished from her mind.


	5. Chapter 3C

Thank you, thank you, you guys!! Glad you're enjoying it. I always love your reviews. I wake up and the first thing I do is check them and get all squealy.

Alright, I PROMISE the next part of this chapter will be exciting. It should be up tomorrow sometime, as exams are done. Only two more parts to chapter 3 to go, and then we go back to the present time.

Hot4Gerry, good guess, I was actually contemplating something along those lines when I first thought of this story, but no, that's not it.

Please bear with me. I swear next chapter will be exciting.

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**Chapter 3C.**

It was a bare room. Old and stained, the faded curtains tattered and the mattress on the rusty bed lumpy and almost skeletal it was so thin. But it was all Chara could afford from her savings. Slowly over those months she had made it a home for her sister, bringing in vases of flowers and a couple of tapestries to hang on the walls and make the room look cosier. Marianne had been quite frightened when Chara had taken her to another town where an unfamiliar doctor had examined her and proven Chara's fears correct – Marianne _was_ with child. Marianne had wept bitterly in the carriage ride home.

"You must think I am a terrible slut," her voice quivered as she curled up on the seat trembling.

"No, I do not," Chara had said emotionlessly, "I think you are a silly little gullible fool who played with fire you didn't properly understand, but I do not think you a slut."

She could hear her sister weeping, then weakly, "Paulus will give me money, he –"

"Will either ignore you completely or cause even more trouble. Marianne, you put yourself into this catastrophe so you must let me assist you. You must never think of him again, do you hear me?" Chara said sternly.

"But –" Marianne tried to argue.

"He is a _married man_ Marianne. What would _Father_ think of you if he found out?" Chara interrupted.

At the mention of her Father, Marianna paled. Her voice was no more than a whisper, "What are we going to tell him?"

Chara swallowed and shifted uneasily. She had planned it all out in her head and she was sure nothing could go wrong, but she had never gotten a taste for lying.

"We won't tell Father anything," she avoided Marianne's confused look of shock and continued, "I have rented a simple little room where you will live until the baby is born. During the time of your pregnancy I will arrange with a priest to find a good Christian married couple to adopt the child. We will return home for a week where you will excitedly tell Father a friend of yours has asked you to go on a trip around Europe with them. I will convince him that this is a very good idea; it will be a fantastic opportunity for you. Yes, I know, he would never agree straightaway for such a length of time…But…Well, things can happen while you're away and you know how he is…He forgets time when he's so busy with his work."

The more she thought about it actually, the more she was sure could go wrong. But what choice did she have? Her Father would break if he found out his favourite daughter had been touched and was bearing a married man's child. It would serve no good purpose if he were to find out.

Her sister did not argue with this, which Chara was glad about. And so it all began like clockwork. Marianne went on her trip – or so her Father believed. She resided in the room Chara rented just a few streets away and barely left the room. It was far too risky to leave even for a walk, and so Chara spent every day with her, and at nights when everybody was back in their homes she took Marianne for walks, for she had read that exercise could be good for the expecting Mother.

She had thought that pregnancy was supposed to mature women, but Marianne stayed in the same childish world she had always lived in, for the first couple of months at least. All her concerns were about her pouting that her dresses were becoming too tight while Chara worried about money and the arrangements for the infant after it was born.

She entered the room with the priest catching her sister looking oddly at herself in the looking-glass one late afternoon. It was not odd to see her sister looking at a mirror of course, but Chara saw for the first time a look of confused seriousness over her features as her hand rested over her belly, which was just beginning to show.

She turned to face them, but literally shrunk into herself when she saw the stony, rigid priest look icily at her as he sat down. Chara shuffled into their small kitchen and made him tea and then left them to go for a walk as they talked. She returned an hour and a half later to find her sister sitting with her legs tucked underneath her and her arms folded as if hugging herself, tears streaming down her cheeks silently. The priest had gone.

"What happened, dear?" Chara asked, sitting beside her.

"He gave me such a lecture and called me horrible names," Marianne's voice was distant, "He said my child would burn in hell if I kept it, because its Mother is a whore."

Chara sighed inwardly, well, she had been expecting her sister to be given a lecture. But something else that her sister said troubled her, "Well, there is nothing to be concerned about Marianne, for there is no question about you giving the infant up."

Her sister did not answer and Chara turned to her worriedly. She had never mentioned any care for the baby before. She had always agreed it would be best to give up the baby. She had never even _wanted_ the baby.

"I felt him kick just before you brought the priest over," more silent tears streamed down Marianne's face, "I…I was talking to him and he kicked, as if he were answering me. He's never kicked before."

Uncertainty coiled within Chara and she clasped her sister's hand in hers. Oh no…The baby had always been an "it" before, she had never assigned a gender to the unborn baby.

"You don't know if it's a he, Marianne," she said weakly.

But her sister looked at her suddenly, "Oh, I _know_ he's a he. I just have a feeling. I –"

Chara's grip tightened around her sister's hand and she replied harshly, "Stop all of this nonsense about feelings Marianne. You don't know if the baby is a he and furthermore the baby is not yours, do you hear me? As soon as it is born, it will go to a new home and it will be _their_ child. Do you hear me? Then you will return home!"

She did not realise her sister was wincing with pain until she managed to pry her hand away from her and she sniffled, "I don't know if I can give my baby away. I don't like that man…I don't want him to choose a home for my child."

Anger surged through Chara that her irresponsible little twit of a sister _dare_ put a mar in her plan and she snapped, "Well, I _apologise_ if he wasn't as pathetic as Father and decided it is best not to sugar-coat reality. I do not agree with him that the child will burn in Hell after it has died, for every child is born innocent, but its life with you _would_ be Hell. Can't you _think_ you stupid girl? A bastard who must never know of its Father, because its Father is married, born to an unmarried woman. If it is of _either_ gender it will suffer! If it is a girl other Mothers will not let her associate with their daughters, fearing the child is tarred with the same brush as her Mother. No man of esteemed standing will want to marry her once she is a young woman. If it is a boy he will grow up and proper schools will discriminate against him, he –"

"Enough!" Marianne was shaking now, "I don't want to hear it! At least he will grow up loved with me. No other woman could possibly love him as much as me. Chara, you don't understand, he isn't even born but I ache with love for him. I don't care what you say, I'm keeping –"

Chara interrupted her, "You thoughtless silly girl! Do you have _any_ idea what it has cost me to take care of your problem? Don't you care _at all?_ I have had to give countless lies to Father, I have to endure listening to that disgusting priest talk about how it's just as well you have a sister who is sensible and knows the child will be better with another family and then he is trying to convince me that after all of this you should be sent to a _convent!_ And now you think you are capable of taking care of a baby? You can't even take care of yourself!"

"You've never even given me a chance to take care of myself! Whenever anything goes wrong you swoop down and solve everything and you treat me like I'm a fool! I may have made mistakes and I may not be the smartest person, but I can learn Chara! I can learn to care for a baby!"

Chara stood up, facing her sister, her face twisted with anger, "You want to learn, do you? That's rather amusing because I don't think you do. You're still a little girl who thinks a baby will be as lovely as taking care of a doll. Oh, I know you are serious and you have good intentions but you're a silly little girl who can't even sew a button onto a dress! Do you want to know the reality of this situation? You have always been a child to me more than a sister – _my_ child – and to take care of you I am using all my lifelong savings! And do you know, it has only been four months and nearly all of it is gone! I don't know how I'm going to get next month's rent. I really don't. I barely sleep from the worry. How am I going to keep a roof over your head? Feed you? Clothe you now that you're getting too big for your clothes? I can not ask Father because of course he will get suspicious, so I'm going to have to sell the diamond and pearl necklace that Father gave to me that belonged to Mother when they were courting. Then I'll have to pay for a Doctor to help you in labour so I suppose my ruby ear-rings will have to be sold too! Reality is _cruel_ Marianne, you have to sacrifice _everything_ to raise a child. You couldn't deal with it. You will end up resenting your child for the life you sacrificed and the child will resent you for the opportunities it will lack, don't you understand?"

Marianne was barely audible when she mumbled, "I don't care, I'm keeping my baby," but Chara heard those words and swearing with a language she had never used before she left the room, slamming the door violently.

She was pacing the streets, anger and terror running through her veins. Her sister wanted to keep the baby. Dear lord, her sister _wanted_ to _keep_ the _baby!_ How had she not considered before that Marianne would have an overwhelming sense of maternal desire? She wanted to keep the infant. How could she? She wouldn't be able to care for it herself. Chara had never really had particular dreams for own her life before, so she found it interesting that now she could see hopes of travelling and moving away dimming, and tears welled up at those thoughts. She would have to be the one to care for it if her sister kept the baby. The responsibility, the burden, would be on her!

She suddenly felt ill and she eased herself on to a bench, her body trembling all over. If Marianne wanted to keep the baby, _really_ keep the baby, who was she to stop her? That would be cruel, _unbelievably_ cruel. It was against nature to separate a Mother and child. If the Mother was unwilling, what sort of damage would that do?

She barely noticed she had unconsciously walked to the park she used to venture to, barely noticed the flowers, her mind was only focused on her sister as she buried her face in her hands, groaning to herself.

She didn't hear the footsteps but she sensed the presence of somebody standing before her as she wallowed in the dark reverie of her thoughts. Slowly though, she looked up and all thought froze as _he_ stood before her, his violin in his grasp. The masked stranger who was her only friend.

"Oh, oh I had forgotten about you," she said almost absentmindedly.

She stood, ignoring the stony glare that he bestowed upon her. All she thought was that finally, _finally_ she could share her burden with somebody and if he couldn't help her, then that was alright. All she wanted was his music. It was like a salve on an aching wound.

She barely looked into his gold eyes, barely registered his look of feeling betrayed as she collapsed onto his figure, her hands grasping his waistcoat.

"I am so glad to see you again," she murmured, relief washing through her. What _was_ it about him that comforted her so?

Suddenly however, she was pushed back and she finally noticed his icy demeanour.

"I am happy that _somebody_ seems to be glad at least," he replied bitterly, "For I had just hoped that _I_ would never see _you_ again."

She stepped back of her own free will this time. That bitterness was not normal resentment. It hid something deeper which frightened her. She could have laughed at her nonsensical fear if she was not so certain of it. His eyes held incensed rage. And it was directed at _her._

"Please," she swallowed nervously and there was a tremor in her voice as she continued, "Please, I am in trouble. I would very much like somebody to talk to…If that offer of a meal is still open?"


	6. Chapter 3D

Thank you very much my three loyal reviewers.

Alright, so as important as these flashbacks are, I've decided they drag the story on a bit, so at the end of this chapter and for the next few we go back to the present day, and then I will continue with the past a little while later. Thank you Passed Over, for your reassurance and I promise you I'll get back into them.

Thanks again! :)

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****Chapter 3D.**

"If that offer for a meal is still open?" Erik snickered, as if he could not find what she had said believable, "Mademoiselle, I do believe _dinner_ became _rather cold_ nearly _five months ago."_

She looked at him confused, "I don't understand why you seem to…" her voice trailed and it all began to make sense to her. While she had been having a whirlwind of a time planning and taking care of her sister and worrying, this man had just been coming to the park each day waiting. And waiting. And waiting. He must have thought so many things, that she had rejected him, that…She was grabbing onto his arm and refusing to let go, and nearly five months of pain came blurting out as she tried to explain, "No, oh Monsieur Erik, it isn't like that at all. It isn't what you think! Do you remember me telling you about my sister? My sister, the beautiful one, she's only sixteen, well –"

He pulled away from her forcefully, "You do not need to create excuses for having no desire to accepting dinner with me, and just because you see me now, do not feel any obligation in pretending to want to."

"No, but –" she tried to say.

But he turned and began walking. She followed him, "Monsieur Erik! Please! Listen to me!"

He did not turn back and continued to walk away. Tears welled up in her eyes as desperation seized her. She barely knew this man, but he was the one person she felt she could talk to and he was walking out of her life.

Her face twitched and she bent down, picking up a stone. She stood back up and hurled it at his retreating back. She barely felt herself shaking as he stopped and slowly turned to face her, she barely noticed anything except the tirade that spewed out from within her.

"I'm sorry if I kept you waiting, I am sorry that I hurt you in some way, I am sorry for everything. But I have endured nearly five months of Hell. My sister is pregnant. My unmarried little sister. A married man tricked her into sharing his bed for a time before he grew bored of her, and now that he has thrown her away I have to deal with the consequences. My Father doesn't know any of this; he thinks she's away gallivanting around Europe, having a jovial time with a friend and her parents. He has no idea I have shut her in, like a caged nightingale, out of sight in a rented room. As her stomach swells, my worry increases. She hasn't had proper light for months, she's so pale. But I can only let her leave the house at night, for someone may recognise her during daylight. I have to worry about food, about new clothes…And do you know, after everything, after my painstakingly perfect plan, _now_ she has told me she intends to _keep the baby._ My baby sister wants to keep her baby," Chara began to laugh, tears streaming down her cheeks, "So I _apologise_ Monsieur Erik that I did not return to you as soon as you had hoped, I _apologise_ that you were barely in my thoughts. But I have had my reasons. I don't know why I returned here today of all days, but now that I have returned I need a friend. I know I barely know you, and I know that with your meagre means you would not be able to help – not that I would ever place that burden on you if you could, but I thought…I thought you could be a friend. I helped you when you were ill and had nobody. And while I never expected anything and I would have helped you regardless, I thought that you might have wanted to help me in return, I had hoped…I am sorry if I was mistaken."

And to her shame she burst into hot tears.

Erik stood in front of her, silent for a moment as she unravelled before him. All the worry, all the fear that was entwined within her broke and she had to force herself not to slide to the pavement. After that moment he was directly in front of her, his violin placed on the pavement and he awkwardly reached out both hands. He halted for a moment uncertainly, but then cupped her face with his hands, covering her cheeks. With his thumbs he gently wiped the tears away.

"Shh, dear girl, there is nothing to cry about now. You have returned to me and I will help you," he murmured.

She could not control her next actions, could not control throwing herself at the man, her arms wrapping around his neck and her cheek resting against his waistcoat. Tears moistened his clothes but he did not seem to mind, his hand encircling her back as she wept.

"You should have come before _mes amie,_ why did you not come before?" he was murmuring, then pushed her back gently, "If your Father does not know any of this, how on Earth are you paying for rent?"

"Oh," Chara was embarrassed now at her show of such bold emotion and she lowered her head, "I have nearly used up all my savings. I am going to start selling my jewellery now."

Erik grimaced at that, "There is no need for such a sacrifice. I will help you."

"What do you mean?" Chara sniffled, "Don't be silly, I'm not expecting anything from you, you can barely afford to feed yourself, I just…Just needed a friend."

"Let's just say…" Erik paused thoughtfully before he answered, "Let's just say I acquired quite a large fortune a lot of years ago."

"Quite a large fortune?" Chara asked disbelievingly, "Is that why you live underneath a _cathedral?"_

Erik laughed, genuinely amused. He touched her hair in an almost fond manner, pulling a strand from her damp face, "I will show you later why I have chosen the cathedral as my abode. But for now I believe we have a dinner rendezvous."

"Oh…" Chara stammered, "Well, I am in hardly the right sort of gown to dine out…Why don't you come with me to the room I have rented for my sister? I can cook you dinner and Marianne is very good at entertaining."

She blushed as he looked at her amused, detecting the razor sharp bitterness in that last sentence.

He answered, "That sounds like a wonderful idea, but for one thing. I promised I would cook _you_ a meal and I intend to. I will cook you a meal at the room."

After some playful argument, Chara relented and they walked together to an open market where Erik bought a whole chicken and other ingredients for the mystery meal he was going to cook for her.

It was so odd, she barely knew this man – and added to that she had never spoken so freely to a man who was not her Father – but they talked so easily. He made her laugh, trying to convince her he had once been the magician of a Persian royal court. What was she to believe? If he made up stories about being a magician, was there any basis for his fortune that he claimed to have? He slept underneath a cathedral, played music like any other beggar and was a forgotten remnant like so many other poor men who had returned injured from war, yet he wore fine clothes, spoke like a scholar and played music like an Angel.

"You are a man of mystery, Monsieur Erik," she murmured as she opened the door to the room she rented.

They both walked in as Marianne ventured out of the small bathroom in nought but her nightdress, her curls hanging loosely down her back. She looked at Chara with eyes wide, and Chara blushed even though there was absolutely no reason to.

"Good evening," Marianne said hesitantly, staring more at the mask the gentleman wore without any subtlety, than his actual face, "I am Chara's sister, Marianne."

"I am quite aware of who you are," Erik said bluntly, and this time it was Marianne's turn to blush as he took a look at her slightly swollen belly and walked past her after deducing where the kitchen was.

As soon as he had disappeared into the kitchen, a comical grin plastered over Marianne's face as she rushed over to Chara's side, "Sister!" she exclaimed, barely able to keep to a whisper she was so excited, "You never told me you had a _friend!_ He looks a little odd and why does he wear a mask? Is he rich?"

Chara tried to remain dignified and she cleared her throat, "For goodness sake, even after you have gotten into trouble because of a male, you still act like a fool."

Marianne giggled, ignoring the reprimand, "If I had known you were going to storm out and find comfort with your lover, I would have made sure to put some rouge on your cheeks," she began to untie the silk scarf around Chara's neck.

Chara moved back as it was pulled away from her throat, "What on earth are you doing?"

"You need to show a hint of skin, dear Chara," Marianne said, "And you have such a pretty throat, I will lend you my jade necklace, you know, the one shaped in a rose. It's simple, but -"

"A _pretty throat?"_ Chara snorted, "Marianne, are you _mad?_ For goodness sake, put a robe on," she stomped over to a chair beside a table where her sister's turquiose blue robe was hanging and she took it off.

For a moment she looked in the mirror at the reflection of the pale and unadorned plain girl. Perhaps she _could_ use some rouge...

She rolled her eyes as she let her sister clasp the necklace around her throat and even scolded half-heartedly. But she could not ignore the fact that she let her do it.

"Oh Chara, if only you would allow me to fix your hair...You would look so lovely with curls..." Marianne lent her head on the back of Chara's shoulder, "I am very sorry for before, please don't be angry with me. I do appreciate everything you do for me, I do."

Chara turned around and squeezed her sister in an embrace before she helped her in the robe, "Of course I'm not angry with you anymore love, Monsieur Erik promised he would help us."

Marianne giggled and went over to the settee, "He did, did he? Oh, I _wonder why_ he would offer such a thing."

Chara shook her head and ignored her sister's giggling and went to join Erik in the kitchen.

* * *

There was more to her recollections, much more. That had only been the beginning of her and Erik's history, but her memories were cut cruelly when she saw her husband snatch her newborn from the unsuspecting midwife and crash from the room. The midwife fled after him crying out his name desperately.

Chara had been weak moments before from giving birth, but a surge of maternal protection shot through her and she was pulling herself out of the bed and stumbling as fast as she could through the room. She stumbled and fell against the doorframe panting, but forced herself to follow.

"Erik, don't you harm my daughter!" she literally screamed, "I'll tell them who you are if you do! Don't you harm her, or I swear I'll kill you myself before the gendarmes even have a chance!"

She stumbled to the bathroom door, and dread tore through her as she heard the running water. She started banging against the locked door beside the midwife.

"The woodpile…I saw an axe by your woodpile," the girl finally said and fled from the house.

Chara barely heard her as her hysterics turned to sobs when the minutes flew by and all she could hear was silence from behind the door. It did not take long to drown an infant. _Drown an infant._ Christ, it all sounded so surreal. It could not be real, it couldn't!

"Chara…" she heard him say softly after that long interlude, "Chara, there is a key in the bookcase."

The girl had returned, dropping the axe to the floor when she heard what Erik had said. It was she who raced to the bookcase, pulling out books at random and finding the key. It was she who ran over to the door and unlocked it, pushing it open.

The scene that met them froze Chara's fear, like a fist clenched in her chest. Her husband sat in the bathtub, fully clothed, while the water ran. He was shaking, tears streaming down his face. He held a bundle in his arms, his face resting on the small head. She crawled over on all fours, her former strength depleted, and when she reached the bathtub she raised herself up on to her knees, her arms holding the bath, still crying herself.

"What have you done, Erik? Oh God, what have you done?!"

She heard a tiny sound, her newborn crying, and utter blind relief flooded through her. Her baby, her daughter was still living. He had not harmed her.

It was a small bathtub but Chara pulled herself in, the cold water barely registering at all as she nestled beside her husband, resting her head on his sodden shirt. She wound one arm around his waist and she moved forward, planting a kiss on her daughter's marred cheek.

At this show of motherly affection, Erik began to cry, tears racking from within him.

"I'm sorry my little daughter, forgive me, oh God forgive me that I couldn't end it…I couldn't end it for you."

She closed her eyes, leaning against her husband, weariness quickly overcoming her.

"I'll tend to the little boy," the midwife muttered, backing out of the room respectfully and closing the door.

They were left alone, her, Erik and their newborn. In the next few moments the doctor would hurry in and pick her up from the bath, carrying her out of the room and muttering about the foolishness of her slipping into such cold water after giving birth. And the midwife would gently take the infant from Erik to quickly wrap her in warm blankets. But Erik did not leave the bath for a long time afterwards. The midwife was the one to venture in and talk to him softly.

Chara did not care. He could stay in there as long as he liked. She held her daughter and son close, crying softly in reprieve. Her young son's innocent babble washed over her as she drifted off into sleep.

It had been a _long_ day.


	7. Chapter 4

Wow, thank you so much, such lovely reviews!

* * *

**Chapter Four.**

Miriam worked quietly and efficiently as she wrapped the little infant in blankets. She could sense the Madame watching her from behind as she lay in bed with her son snuggled next to her. When she had finished she turned and moved over, passing the infant to the Mother's arms. Miriam helped the Madame unbutton the front of her nightdress and helped her nurse her baby.

"While I appreciate your help," Madame Morreaux said patiently, "I have learnt how to do this before, with my son. The doctor has left, you may go as well."

"I am sorry Madame, but part of my work is to assist with the aftermath of the birth," Miriam answered softly, "Perhaps you would like me to look after little Gabriel while you rest?"

She moved to take the baby and place her in the cot beside the bed but the woman held on to both her children tightly, "You would think after everything I would simply just go to sleep? Please, stay if you must, but leave me and my children for the moment."

"Very well," Miriam said understandingly. She smiled at Gabriel who was sucking his thumb and twirling a lock of his Mother's hair with his other hand, and she turned and left the room.

The house was silent. Completely silent. It was all very odd and sad at the same time. Usually after a birth houses were full of talk and much celebration. If there were older children in the family, they would be giggling and talking, begging to see their newborn sibling. Other relatives would be over congratulating the Father heartily, and drinks would be poured and toasts to the child's life would be shouted out. She would have to beg them, to _please_ allow the Mother to rest. If it were a couple without children, usually the relatives would be over as well, but even if there were none, as she flitted around the room cleaning up she would catch whispers between the new parents, whispers she was not a part of, whispers of intimacy between each other, whispers of affection to their new little creation. But in this case it was as if a child had died, it was so hushed. Even the little boisterous child who had wanted to show her every single one of his toys when she had first come to visit when the Madame had been heavily pregnant and had chatted away when his Mother was having contractions now seemed to respect the silence even in his limited understanding, prattling to his Mother in a quietened tone.

She could not imagine, under the circumstances, anybody thinking of meals, so she ventured into the kitchen and set about making a simple stew. As she sliced onions, chopped carrots and prepared other vegetables she looked out the window at the Madame's small piece of Eden. For a moment she forgot about the tragedy that had just occurred to this family as she arranged everything together - adding the vegetables and strips of beef into a pot of boiled water over a fire - and envied the woman. She must have so much spare time to spend at leisure fashioning her garden. She wondered what the husband did for a living, to have so much money. The cottage was not a lavish mansion, but it was small and cosy with hints of prosperity here and there. Distinctly foreign ornaments from the middle east decorated the sitting room, luxurious rugs adorned the floors, the little heir had many toys - and a diamond and opal ring decorated the Madame's hand. Their wealth was tasteful and not overstated, but it was obvious they were from money.

She thought of her own Mother, struggling to make ends meet with her husband always absent because of his time spent at sea, but making his presence known by impregnating her nearly every time he was home. Money was scarce, not because he drank or gambled like most sea-faring rogues, but because gold seemed to slip through his fingers like grains of sand. Helping friends out in need or buying rounds of drinks always seemed to come first before his large family. And what was the most amusing part of all, was he seemed to question now in the recent years when he came home, why his "oldest and prettiest" daughter (she had to roll her eyes at that, she was his _only_ daughter) wasn't married. He had even tried to match her with a young sailor friend of his. Handsome and amiable the young man may have been (with a delightful Irish accent that would make any woman with less of a rigid mindset swoon…And such lovely blue eyes and a sweet nature…_Stop it Miriam!_ She had to reprimand herself), she recognised that same love for wandering and the ocean in his words that her Father had. And would she ever make the same mistake as her Mother? That was ludicrously out of the question. She would _never_ be chained to a man who was not equally chained to her. She had to be grateful for her adorably foolish Father on some level though, his ensuring her Mother had a brood of children had given her in a manner of speaking, the dream of midwifery.

She finished making the stew and went to check on the Mother and children. She was still in bed of course, but all three were asleep. She thought about placing the baby in the cot again but the Madame had such a hold on her daughter, she did not want to risk waking her. So she silently left the room and went to see how the husband was faring. She quietly opened the bathroom door and stood in shock when she saw he was still in the bathtub. The water must be as cold as ice by now. She stood in the doorway watching him, but the broken man did not look up at her. He did not acknowledge her at all. He continued to sit there, unmoving, looking straight ahead, tears streaming silently down his face. It looked as if he was in a world of his own and she wondered what he was thinking about.

She went straight to the basin in the corner of the room, with a looking-glass behind it on the wall. Without thinking too much of her reflection she untied the white bow from under her chin, discarding her white midwife's cap onto the floor. In a moment her starched white apron joined it and she stood in her dark and modest dress. No hint of skin showed, the sleeves reached her wrists, the material went up to her neck and the skirts reached her feet. A midwife was an extension of a doctor to be used like one of his tools, or was a nameless person who worked on her own. They had no identity, no gender, no name. But that was how she liked it. She wanted to assist in the pivotal moment in a woman's life that was childbirth and then move on when she had completed her work successfully.

But now she unpinned her hair, letting the ebony waves fall around her shoulders and down her back. Then from around her throat underneath the modest material of her uniform, she pulled out the locket she always wore that had a small ruby in the centre of a beautiful design, a relic from one of her brother's travels when he had joined his Father's occupation. When she had been trained as a midwife she had realised that to comfort parents in a tragedy, one must be more personal, more genuine, more human. She didn't care what her elderly midwife mentor had said about remaining distant, sometimes more damage could be done when you were detached. From a stand she took some towels and she went over to the bathtub, kneeling down.

"Monsieur Morreaux," she probed gently, "Please, you will catch your death of a cold if you remain in there."

The man did not move or speak.

With her hand she touched his shoulder lightly, "I understand that you are in quite a calamity, but Monsieur Morreaux, your wife needs you and it will do no good for anyone if you become ill."

Slowly he turned to face her and blinked, as if he had not realised she had entered the room until that moment.

"You're the midwife," he said absentmindedly, "You look so different with your hair down."

She smiled encouragingly, "Yes, Monsieur. I am the midwife. My name is Miriam. Please come out of that water, I would like to talk to you."

"There is nothing to be done…She will be cursed. I have cursed my own child," he was muttering.

Miriam shifted her position on her knees and sighed inwardly. It didn't look like he was going to move from the bathtub, at least not yet.

* * *

Hours later Erik emerged from the bathroom. The midwife took his arm and led him to the kitchen by the fire where she wrapped blankets around him and served him some of the stew. She left him alone to his thoughts as she dished out a bowlful for Gabriel and the Madame, leaving the room and shutting the door.

He had thought it best not to think. Only to chew.

Chew, chew, swallow, chew.

* * *

Chara had heard the midwife enter her room again, but had not opened her eyes, instead clinging to her daughter and feigning sleep. The girl placed a bowl of some sort of cooking on her bedside table, the aroma wafting under her nose. Her mouth watered. She had used so much exertion during that day and she had barely eaten anything. But she still continued to lie there, unmoving.

"Come now little one," the girl crooned softly to Gabriel who stirred awake, "It's time to eat. Then you will have a bath and go to sleep."

Her son complained tiredly, saying, "Papa read me story first."

The girl picked up Gabriel, reassuring him kindly that she would read him a story and the tired little boy surrendered in the woman's arms and was taken out of the room.

Chara went back to dozing, the temptation to sleep overpowered her appetite and she crooned softly as her little daughter cried. After nursing her again, she rested some more.

The door opened and she sensed her husband step in. She kept her eyes closed as he stood at the end of her bed, watching her. She held her daughter tighter and she had to repress a combination of a sob and a shudder.

_That bastard nearly drowned my daughter!_

"Let me see her, Chara."

She was still for a moment longer but then slowly opened her eyes, looking at him cautiously. This time she could not stop the sob from escaping.

_How could you?!_

_Yes,_ she understood why. It was of course obvious. His face, everything always came back to his damned face. But the infant was innocent, was beautiful, was _hers,_ was _his._ To even think that he could consider…Even for a moment. _Really_ consider…

He looked sorrowfully at her and he moved over to her side, sitting on the edge of the bed. He turned his gaze away from her and frowned deeply, saying softly and gently, "I only wish to hold her now. Please…Please don't think that of me anymore. I can't be that much of a monster to her."

Chara closed her eyes, tears streaming down her already tear-stained face. She was so tired, so very tired and she released the grip on the infant so Erik could take her. She opened her eyes and saw him holding his daughter as gently as if she were a tiny bird. He was humming, humming softly and the baby was looking up at him, entranced.

"Hello precious one," Erik said to her as if in awe, "I'm your Father. I'm your Papa."

Chara was silent, watching this meeting between Father and daughter. It was a beautiful moment, sacred, and she dared not interrupt.

Perhaps everything would be alright. It was normal, was it not, for someone so scarred – physically and emotionally – to be terrified of the prospect of a child to bear such a mark? She was utterly frightened herself. The moment she had first held her she had shaken, wanting to envelope the little one in a lifetime of shelter and security, where no cruel fault of the world could taint her. And this was the deepest of her husband's fears. But if it could be conquered, if he could love the little girl, like he was loving her now, then it would be all as it should be.

A warmth thread through her, she was so proud, so very proud of her husband right now, the leaps and bounds he had made this day.

She took his arm and pulled herself upright, leaning against him as they both gazed at their child. Mother, Father and daughter, all together.

_All as it should be._

"Sing to her, Erik, show her your beautiful voice," she nuzzled his arm affectionately.

He leaned his head against hers, and obliged her request with little Gabriel's favourite nursery rhyme.

"Je connais un arbre, qui est denude. Car pendant l'automne, les feuilles sont tombées.  
Elles devenaient jaunes, Brunes et oranges, Vertes, rouge-bordeaux, Et même dorées."

_("I know a tree, it's bare. For in the Autumn the leaves fell down. They were turning yellow, brown and orange. Green, burgundy red and even golden")_

After he finished singing, he hummed softly and then slowly his trailed into silence.

Yes, perhaps he can come to accept her, and they'll raise her with all the love they can provide. She'll be protected by them, and she'll grow up happily with them. It could work. Little Gabriel was so smart, so intelligent, who knows what this one could be like? And with Erik to guide her knowledge…

"The midwife spoke to you?" Chara finally asked curiously.

"Yes…Yes, she helped me a great deal," Erik answered vaguely.

"Good," Chara lent back onto the pillows, her fingers tracing Erik's leg, "That is good…"

She was relaxing now, and tiredness once again tempted her to submit. Her eyelids began to flutter but she forced herself to remain awake, enjoying watching her husband bond with their daughter.

Erik looked at her inquisitively, "Have you given her…"

"A name? No, no I haven't yet," she answered.

"C-could I?"

"Name her? Of course," she smiled, "What are you thinking of, Erik?"

"Bethany," he answered simply, "Little Beth."

"Little Beth," she repeated it, "Oh Erik, that's beautiful."

For some reason Erik began to cry again after that moment, shaking softly, as he looked down at his youngest child. He brought her up to him and rested the good side of his face onto her cheek, crooning softly.

"I'm so sorry, Chara," Erik murmured.

She pulled herself up again, and with the tip of her finger on his chin, guided his face to look at her, "Erik, we will talk about this later. Tomorrow. Today, right now, we just focus on our little girl. Is that clear?"

He gently moved his face away and looked at his little girl, whispering her name. He then began to weep but smiled as her little hand reached out and tugged at his mask and batted it with her small fist.

"I'm so sorry…" he murmured again.

"Erik," she sighed and rested against him, feeling his warmth.

_Everything was as it should be._

He was whispering to her now, whispering, with such a heartbroken tremor, "I'm so sorry love, but she must go away."


	8. Chapter 5

Thank you, thank you, thank you, you three!! Thank you.

Hot4Gerry, I'm sorry if it came out weird, some things just sound like they make sense in my head...It's like...I was trying to put across that her main _professional_ job was finished, so now she could be herself when helping him.

* * *

**Chapter Five.**

_Dear Monsieur Morreaux,_

I trust this update meets you in good health. Your daughter…

Miriam stopped writing, leaning back in the chair thoughtfully. What could she write? How could one tell a parent how their child was faring? So many months had passed…Little Bethany was nearly ten months. Miriam had written to the Morreaux's faithfully every month, detailing every developing feature of the child she could think of. She heard a cry and turned, smiling as she saw Bethany manoeuvring herself around, using the table to balance herself. A mop of dark hair crowned her little face, her fringe falling into her hazel eyes. She giggled and clapped at her achievement of moving a few steps but then fell on her rear when she let go of the table, her mouth trembling for a moment before she pulled herself back up with a grunt. Miriam smiled and then went back to the letter.

What to write? Anything she could write sounded like facts, so sterile and bare. _Your daughter is doing well. She's developing so quickly. Thank you for the picture book, I do believe reading to her is improving her language skills._ Miriam placed the quill back in the ink pot. Perhaps she would try and finish it later. She sighed.

Her life had completely transformed since she took the infant a week after her birth. In one week her career had changed from midwife to sole caregiver. But oh how she loved that child. She couldn't quite believe that the infant's face had once shocked her so. It was part of who she was now. But she was like any other child – well, no, that wasn't completely true. She was brighter than most children. She could assemble infants' jigsaw puzzles very quickly and follow simple instructions. When she had first moved into the small house that Monsieur Morreaux procured for his daughter, far out in the country, she had kept a barrier between herself and the child, believing the days spent together would be numbered. The parents would talk, the Father would come to his senses and they would send for her straightaway. She could not afford to become attached to the child; it would only hurt her in the end when she had to return her. That was the only reason she had accepted the job in the first place, assuming all they needed was time. But no such summons ever arrived.

She still felt a chill in her spine at the fact she had taken a woman's daughter, and one she obviously had loved dearly. The Madame had gone missing during the night a few days after Bethany's birth. Monsieur Morreaux had sent for her, asking her to look after the children while he searched for her. She had sat by little Gabriel until she heard them returning, had rushed out and seen him holding his wife in his arms as he descended from his horse. Miriam had covered her mouth in shock as he walked past her into the house without even seeming to notice she was there, all that existed for him was the woman in his arms. The wife didn't move or cry, all she muttered was, "It's because of what I did to Marianne…I'm paying for what I did to my baby sister."

It was then that she knew it was time to take Bethany. Obviously they had issues they needed to sort out. Bethany's birth had just been a catalyst. It was probably best to take the little one away till everything was sorted out. She had not expected Monsieur Morreaux to be so generous with her wage. The first time she had looked upon her first cheque she had assumed it was for Bethany's expenses. She had gone out and had bought clothes, toys and many more things and had put the rest in her savings. Then she had tentatively written to him, asking for her salary and providing all the necessary receipts from the purchases she had made. He had written back quite bemused (also providing another cheque) explaining that that had been her wage. She had then assumed he would be paying her every six months, but no, every month following she had received the same payment. She finally could find pleasure in sending her Mother money every month, which is what she had always dreamed of doing. She pictured her Mother buying a choice cut of meat, or a new hat, or a trip to the ballet – a career she had given up when she had married and became pregnant with Miriam. She had to laugh though, when the first thing her Mother had bought was no long anticipated luxury for herself, but fine new boots for one of her boys.

She thought back to Bethany, who Miriam gradually came to admit to herself over the months that she loved like a daughter. They lived by themselves out in the country, a two hour drive from Paris, and a half an hour drive to the neighbouring village. They spent hours rambling through the fields, picking flowers, watching birds…Miriam had bought a Jersey cow, which provided Bethany with fresh milk. The child was quite enamoured with her pet and insisted she help milk her, standing in front of Miriam as she sat on a small stool, giggling as Miriam guided her hands around the udder's teat. They barely saw anybody, and Miriam worried about the child's social skills, so regularly she sent for her youngest brothers, a pair of three year old identical twins. This would give her Mother a little bit of respite and it would also provide Bethany with much needed playmates. They were good boys, who after staring at her face for a moment at first, took her hand and wanted to be shown the cow.

Miriam had been concerned about the little one's face. She wondered if there could be creams or anything to moisten it and she thought it was probably best if she had a doctor give regular checkups. She ventured into the city, leaving Bethany with her Mother as she went to find a suitable physician.

Two weeks. It had been two weeks of walking around the city, being refused or being the one to refuse. Some doctors did not even want to see and some – some were _overly_ curious. Some charged ridiculous fees which she knew Monsieur Morreaux would pay, but a bitter memory from her childhood of her Mother begging one of these rich physicians - who cared for nothing but his payment - to look over a sick son and having to sell a family heirloom to pay made Miriam rigidly stubborn.

She knocked on one door, those two weeks later and was admitted entrance by a maid. She had heard this doctor was compassionate to a fault and was even laughed at by peers in his own profession because he had been known not to take any payment if he believed the person could not pay.

She walked in as the doctor was signing some forms. He looked up and something tickled Miriam's memory. Had she seen him before? It was possible, she had worked with many doctors in the past. He looked young (for a physician), perhaps in his mid to late thirties, yet his hair was mostly silver. His eyes – they were the unique part about him. She had heard of the disorder before – _Heterochromia_ – two different colour eyes. He had one blue and one brown.

"Good afternoon Mademoiselle, please sit down," he gestured to a comfortable chair.

Miriam sat down, folding her hands on her lap and without the usual pleasantries plunged into why she was here, "I heard you were a compassionate doctor –" she began.

"Some call it compassion, others foolishness," he grimaced vaguely.

"Oh. Yes, well, I have a –" she tried to begin again.

But he interrupted her once more, curiously tilting his head, "Do I know you? I could have sworn I have seen you before."

Miriam sighed impatiently but answered his question civilly, "It is probable. My occupation used to be a midwife, I have worked with countless doctors."

He stared at her a moment longer, then beamed, "Ah _yes!_ Now I know who you are. Yes, you're the…Weren't you…You're the midwife who fled Paris a while ago. We worked together once on a birth – the twins…" his voice paused and he frowned, "Yes, that was an unfortunate case."

She sat there thoughtfully, then it all came back in a rush. Her hand went to her forehead as she remembered sitting with the Mother for hours. Both twins had died. There had been so much blood, she had had to change aprons numerous times, they had thought they would lose the Mother too. But no, she had survived.

It had been dawn and Doctor Gautier had found her, bawling like a child on the doorstep of the house. He had stood in front of her awkwardly, as if he wanted to ease her pain as well as the ailing Mother's.

"You did a good job, girl," he tried to soothe, "It isn't easy for anyone. Not even those of us who have seen death in their line of work for years."

She hadn't paid attention to his words. All she could think of were her hands that had been covered in blood. Crimson, scarlet, bloody blood. She had washed them afterwards but she still hadn't been able to get it from her mind that the source of the woman's life ebbing away had been _warm._ Disgustingly warm. She continued to cry.

She could hear a rustling and for a moment she looked up at the doctor who was rifling through his coat pocket. He then pulled out a wrapped caramel toffee and held it out.

She stared at him blankly.

"Erm…They're a particular favourite of a friend of mine's daughter…She is around you age, I thought…Oh damnit..." he stuttered awkwardly, then took her hand, pressed the sweet into it and shuffled off past her into the house.

"You gave me a caramel," she said to him now, "The Mother had lost both babies, but you saw that I was upset and gave me a sweet."

"Yes well," he replied abashed, "I'm naïve about how to deal with distressed midwives."

"Usually nobody bothers," was her comment.

He shrugged, "You came to see me for assistance, I assume?"

"Oh yes!" she remembered why she was here again and she began explaining, "I have an infant. A very special infant... I've become the guardian for a baby girl... Her father trusted her to my care for her protection, she is... She has scarring, Doctor Gautier. She's been in perfect health since she was born but I can't simply bring her into the city to a clinic where she will be a spectacle to everyone with her marks. I've been to countless others already and if they were willing to look over her it was for ridiculous fees, so could you... Could you please make regular visits to my home to check on her? It is a four hour drive both ways, but the Father is a generous man who trusts me. If I tell him I have found a suitable doctor he will pay you well…I have heard you see a lot of patients who cannot pay, well I assure you, having this regular income could help you in seeing more patients in those circumstances."

He was gazing at her oddly and he finally said after a pause, his face leaning on his palm "You were no more than a girl when I last saw you. How old are you now, twenty one?"

She looked at him emotionlessly and controlled her tone as best she could when she asked, "Did you hear _anything_ I just said?"

"I admire the backbone you've grown Miriam – that is your name, is it not?" he replied.

"That is my _name?"_ she finally stood up, utterly affronted, "Oh _brilliant._ Am I supposed to _melt_ at your flattery? That _I_ a _humble midwife_ has been _complimented_ by a _doctor._ Oh I am so honoured, nay, _privileged!_ Never mind that I have walked up and down these streets for a _fortnight_ and all I have _wanted_ is somebody to look at my little girl like she _is_ a _little girl_ and – what did you say?!"

He had said something, quite amiably, in the middle of her rant and he repeated it, "I said I was willing to come," he turned back to his paperwork, "Leave my maid the address, I will come over next Tuesday at 3 in the afternoon. I am usually punctual, so have no fear that I will keep you waiting."

Miriam stood in the middle of his office awkwardly, "I…I…I…Oh…" and later she would realise she had forgotten to thank him before she walked out in a hurry.

_Your daughter has an appointment this week with a very sympathetic doctor. If you wish to speak with him, here is his card. I do hope you, your son and your wife are well. I am looking forward to your visit this month. I do hope your wife reconsiders her stance on not coming._

Yours faithfully,

Miriam.


	9. Chapter 6

Thanks you guys very much!

Okay, hot4gerry, don't worry, all your concerns will be explained in the next chapter.

Passed Over, don't worry, stuff will be explained. I might pop ahead sometimes but I'll go back and explain things that need to be explained. I just wanted to stress the fact that a lot of time has passed. Oh, and it's only been ten months...Don't worry, Beth wasn't milking the cow herself. Miriam was pretty much leaning her against her as she squatted down and guided her hands.

THANK YOU ONCE AGAIN ALL.

* * *

**Chapter Six.**

The child was wary of him, this stranger in her home. She looked up at him with a look of indignation, clinging to Miriam's skirts, leaning against her fully as she stood.

The doctor bent down to her height, "Hello, little Beth," he said soothingly and looked back up at Miriam, "Being so far out here, I assume she isn't used to company?"

"Not really, no," Miriam answered, "She sees some of my brothers who are children and my Mother occasionally, but nobody else…Well, her Father visits every few months…"

"Mmm," the doctor stood and went to the table where he placed down his medical bag, "Does she not sleep well?"

"Erm, well, no, not really. But why do you ask that?" Miriam asked.

He smiled, "You look exhausted; that's why."

Miriam had to laugh. It was true; Bethany did not sleep very well at all. Too much of life excited her; there was so much to do. Who needed sleep when one could explore? She was also a very light sleeper, and in the afternoons Miriam found she had to move about like a ghost. Even the crackle of the fire could disturb her.

"I will give you some herbs to add to her meal at night so she will sleep better. Have no fear, it is a natural remedy," he was taking out a stethoscope from his bag and a spinning top.

He bent down, squatting on his heels and placed the toy on its tip on the floor. It was of a light blue, the colour of the sky, and around the edges horses in mid gallop decorated it. He pulled the string and let go, letting the spinning top wiz about. Bethany's eyes widened in surprise and she let go of Miriam's skirts, excitedly stumbling forward. She fell after a couple of steps and for the rest of the way decided to crawl. Finally she held out her hand, but let out a cry as the toy crashed onto its side and stopped when she touched it. She looked back up at the doctor as if to say, _well, aren't you going to make it do that again?_

The doctor laughed and obliged the child with her unspoken request, only to have her grab it again and stop it in mid spin. She picked it up and examined it, then put it in her mouth, sucking on it. She didn't seem to like the taste of it as she dropped it. She looked back at the doctor who was rifling through his medical bag again, taking out a puzzle. He bent down again, emptying the large pieces.

"Here, why don't we do this together?" he suggested jovially.

She turned the pieces over, looking in enchantment at the new animals she had never seen before. One was grey with large ears and a long nose, and another looked like a giant orange cat with black spots. One was a black bird with a large beak of emerald green and red and the last one was a white looking horse with black stripes. While she was looking at the shapes, the doctor looked up at Miriam, "A son of a friend of mine went to Africa on a world trip…You know how nobles have odd ideas for over-the-top traditions in celebrating their coming of age. Well, he brought it back for…Another child…" his voice faltered as if thinking about something for a moment, then had to force himself to continue, "But it has come in useful for my medical bag."

Miriam sat down in between Bethany and the doctor and looked at him levelly, "You have come and have treated her like any other child patient you may have seen over the years, and while that is a gallant characteristic to have, you do not need to pretend her face means nothing. You are allowed to show shock of some sort."

"It is severe yes, I won't deny it, but by the defensive way you acted in my office last week I was expecting something severe," he turned back to Bethany and his eyes widened as he saw her putting the last piece onto the board, "She…Did she do that by herself?"

Miriam smiled proudly, "You will find Doctor Gautier, that Bethany Morreaux is quite an exceptional child."

"Exceptional indeed," the doctor picked up the board and scattered the four pieces onto the floor again, "Do that again, little sweet."

Bethany looked at him in offence that he had ruined her work but she obliged him and did as she was told. The doctor clapped and smiled, "Well done, you're very quick." Bethany picked up the spinning top and held it out, and the doctor made it spin again.

"I see what you are doing," Miriam said, "You are trying to gain her trust before you move to inspect her face."

The doctor smiled slightly, and while pulling the string on the spinning top again he answered, "Well yes – but not just hers. Her guardian's trust will be harder to win. She is very protective of the child."

* * *

  
A while later after the doctor had examined the infant, Miriam was making tea in the kitchen. He came in and assisted her with placing the teacups on the tray.

"She is very healthy and vivacious, you should be proud of your hard work," he said to her.

"Thank you," she replied, "I suppose you would like to know how she came to me. Come, we will sit out in the garden and I will explain it to you, I suppose you have the right to know."

He carried the tray out while she followed and picked up Bethany along the way, who was chewing on one of the jigsaw pieces. They sat out in the garden and the doctor watched Miriam intrigued as she played with the little girl on her lap, covering her face with her hands and then revealing herself, crying out "Boo!"

The little girl laughed and clapped in glee and then started fiddling with the locket necklace around Miriam's throat, pulling it close to her eyes and staring at the ruby. Miriam's fingers combed through the little girl's thick dark hair, and bent forward, murmuring in her ear sweet words of affection.

"You are an extraordinary woman, Mademoiselle," the doctor mused aloud, "To have so much love for a child who isn't biologically yours."

Miriam pulled the child close to her and said in a somewhat defensive way, "She _is_ mine, Doctor Gautier. I was there from the moment of her birth, I love her the most."

The doctor looked at her thoughtfully, and took a sip of his tea, "Tell me…Her Father visits on the odd occasion, you were saying?"

"Mmm, yes," Miriam said vaguely, not really paying attention to anything but the little girl, "We write regularly too."

"Mademoiselle, I have said before that she is an exceptional child. She's very perceptive for her age, and quick. What will you do when she becomes older and her Father becomes more aware of this?"

"What do you mean?" she finally turned to him.

"What…Would you do, if he wanted his daughter back?" he finally asked.

She didn't realise her grasp on Bethany had tightened until the child began to squirm and complain. She let go at once and said as if she were thoroughly confused, "Well, he can't now, can he? It's been too long. I was expecting it at first, but in two months she will be one years old. I am all she has ever known, it would be cruel to take that bond away."

The pit of her stomach began to simmer in resentment when she saw the look of utter pity on the man's face. But he cleared his throat after a moment when he realised he had probably gone too far, "Anyway, you wouldn't quite believe the rumours that circulated when you left so quickly. The infamous midwife who ran off with her Irish lover. Well, it was either the Irish lover or the newly married Doctor Depardieu, his wife has suffered a mysterious bout of depression and you were apparently the culprit behind it who had to run off when you fell pregnant–"

"With all due respect, I never thought you would be so inclined to listen to petty gossip and obvious lies," Miriam replied sharply, "What with your own background. You wouldn't quite believe the rumours that circulated around you divorcing your wife after she lost the baby those years ago."

There was a poisonous silence. The doctor set down his tea gently, but his hand was visibly shaking.

"You would think I would not find out everything about the doctor who was looking after my child?" she asked.

The doctor lowered his head for a moment, then silently stood up and walked away without a word. Guilt swept over her, especially when she heard the distant sound of horse hooves leaving their property. Bethany gurgled and put the jigsaw piece into her mouth. Miriam gently pried it away from her grip, dropping it onto the grass.

Then she pulled Bethany close and murmured lovingly, "He's wrong, you won't ever be taken away my little one."

* * *

  
Erik walked into the house after knocking on the door when there was no answer. Miriam had mentioned the doctor was coming to visit today, he wanted to find out from her what had been said. Strange, he thought as he entered, the horse was still in the field and the buggy he had bought for them was in the shed. Miriam had not left the property. Perhaps she was rambling in the fields with Bethany, she had mentioned doing that sort of thing a number of times in letters. He silently walked through the house anyway, but as he walked past the bedroom with an open door he saw a figure lying on the bed.

He stepped in quietly and for a moment gazed upon the scene of the young girl, her thick dark tresses covering the pillow, curled on to her side with his baby daughter nestled into her. He gently moved forward and from a chair took a patchwork quilt that lay over it and pulled it over the two who were sleeping.

He silently left the room, and went into the kitchen where he took a glass, filling it with water and sat in the sitting-room, waiting for them to wake and thinking about the last ten months that had flown by, and how one decision he had made out of blind fear and good intentions had destroyed every facet of his life that he had worked so hard over the years to build.

What was that saying that old Giry used to yell at her ballet rats when they had not practiced enough? _The road to Hell is paved with good intentions..._ He laughed at that. How _fitting_ for one who was once thought of as a demon.


	10. Chapter 7

Thanks you guys very much!

Okay, I'm sorry, I just had a random idea. Erik's thoughts and explainations VERY soon, next chapter.

* * *

**Chapter Seven.**

While Erik was sitting alone in the sitting room, he thought about the young woman who was his daughter's guardian. Of course he had researched her history thoroughly. There was no way in Hell he would allow a complete stranger to take charge of his only daughter.

Miriam Beaumont could be defined as an inspiration if one wanted to be sentimental. The eldest of thirteen children who grew up in immense poverty while her Father wandered about the seven seas, squandering any amount of money that came to him. Most girls born into such unfortunate circumstances where they went without proper meals on most days would either turn to thievery or prostitution. He knew her grace and elegance must have come from her Mother. He remembered her Mother well, she had been Giry's only serious rival in the ballet corpse in those days. Dark haired and beautiful, she had chosen to give up her career when she had fallen with child, who ended up being Miriam. She married the lowly sailor and her talent and name as a talented dancer slowly faded out of memory. Erik had to smile though, when he had come across Miriam's records (money can buy any sort of information, even confidential ones). They said that her birth had been a year after they had married, but he remembered distinctly her Mother leaving and marrying quickly because of her condition. With the figure Miriam had inherited from her Mother, she could have quite easily have become a dancer as well. Any girl would have jumped at the chance to have a life of glamour on the stage, especially having her Mother as a valuable contact, why did this girl choose midwifery?

Erik had visited her and his daughter quite a few times. And the girl seemed to genuinely adore his daughter – scarring and all. It still made Erik uneasy…He had so many problems with trust, how could he be sure Bethany was really being treated well? He inspected her little body for bruises whenever he came, but there was never any sign of abuse…And she seemed happy…Well fed and well dressed…How on earth was it possible for someone who was not blood related to love a child with such physical deformity when his own Mother…His own Mother had…He steered his thoughts away from that.

He had liked the idea of her hiring a doctor to check on her regularly…But what if that was just a clever plan of hers, to make it look as if she were sincere? He had sent her a large cheque as her payment, intrigued on what a young girl who had been raised with nothing would do if she started receiving a small fortune. He had been abashed when she had written to him, asking him if he could send her her wage and providing evidence that she had spent the large cheque on provisions for Bethany. He had then sent another, explaining that she had been mistaken, and that was the wage. He had noticed whenever coming to visit that Miriam wore the same sort of modest garments that she had worn when she barely had money. No jewels or frills adorned her clothing. The only thing that changed was he found out, after investigating, the living circumstances of her family had changed considerably.

She was thoughtful, kind, genuine…Why did he have such uneasiness about her?

He heard stirring from within the bedroom after an hour or so. He stood straightaway, his heart pumping quickly. There iwas/i a test he supposed, to ensure she was everything she made out to be.

He quickly hid behind a curtain, feeling like a fool…

* * *

Miriam stirred awake as Bethany tugged at her hair, babbling inaudible words. She groaned and sat up – when had she put the quilt over them? Mmm, it hardly mattered. She moved off the bed and placed Bethany down. Holding her hand firmly they walked out of the room and down the corridor slowly, as Bethany concentrated on her steps.

"Such a good girl, so clever, you can almost walk by yourself," Miriam encouraged lovingly.

When they got to the sitting-room, Bethany let go of her hand and crawled to her pile of toys. Miriam went to sit down but noticed there was a half empty glass of water on the table. She blinked – that was odd…Had the doctor drank some water?

"I think we'll have chicken tonight, little love," she said absently as she put the glass in the kitchen, "And then maybe if it's warm tonight we'll go for a walk."

She smiled to herself as Bethany babbled an answer from the other room. She walked into the sitting-room again, noticing Bethany was staring at the curtains. She began to crawl over but Miriam scooped her up in her arms, scattering kisses over her face, "Oh no you don't," she laughed, "You need to get used to walking."

But Bethany squirmed in her grasp, pointing to the curtain and babbling. Miriam looked over curiously, then held Bethany closer as fear spread through her. She could have sworn she saw it move…

Not turning her back, she edged out of the room, placing Bethany in the hallway. She closed the door carefully behind her as she ventured back into the sitting-room. She was so far from any sort of neighbours, she was practically alone and vulnerable out here.

She fumbled for a fire poker beside the fireplace, not taking her eyes from the curtain.

_One, two, three, NOW!!_

She lunged forward, and with a cry tore the curtain aside and with all of her force thrust the fire poker down on…

A scream shattered her mighty cry and she dropped the poker at once in utter fright.

"What on _earth_ are you doing here?"


	11. Chapter 8

Thank you, thank you, thank you, you two.

I really hate to say this, but this will be the last chapter I can post for about three and a half weeks. I'm going away and I'll have no internet. But I'll write when I'm away so there'll be a new chapter as soon as I return around the 16th of July.

* * *

**Chapter Eight.**

Pain slashed through Erik as the fire poker caught his arm. He could feel blood dripping underneath the material of his coat and shirtsleeve after a moment, and he hissed in pain. Yes, hiding behind a curtain was _not_ the most brilliant of plans. Over the years he had become the master of stealth and secrecy, haunting the Opera Populaire like it was his domain. And now, here he was, hiding behind a mere curtain and finding it difficult and awkward. The windowsill poked uncomfortably in the back of his legs and he had limited space to move without it being obvious. It felt like a bloody cage. What a _stupid_ plan, he swore to himself, and gritting his teeth had to try and remain still when he heard Miriam enter the room.

The _goddamn_ Phantom of the _goddamn_ Opera was finding hiding behind a _curtain_ of all things, _difficult?_ God_damnit!_

He had heard her taking Bethany out of the room, had heard the slow clunk (which he had found out was the fire poker being pulled from its stand) and her footsteps approaching…And before he could defend himself, the curtain was ripped aside and she made her attack.

"What on _earth_ are you doing here?" she stared at him in complete shock, the fire poker dropping to the carpet.

He moved forward grimacing, "I…Was…" he quickly tried to think of an explanation.

Miriam put her hands on her hips, answering her own question, "Spying," and then rolled her eyes, "Well, sit down. Lord knows with how hard I hit you, I probably gave you some sort of injury," she led him to a chair and sat him down.

He eased his coat off and she rolled up his left sleeve, till a slight gash was revealed just below his elbow. She tut tutted and then murmured, "Why were you spying on me Monsieur Morreaux, do you not trust me yet?" she paused, "You have every right I suppose, but if I had caught you in a more _restricted_ and _personal_ area in this house, I would not have stopped bludgeoning you with the poker…Wait here, I'll go get some ointment so that doesn't become infected."

She moved over to the door and opened it, and immediately Bethany came crawling through, affronted that she had been forced to remain alone in the hallway. She moved over to Erik and tugging his pant leg pulled herself up, staring up at him. He bent forward and collected her in his arms, his gloved hand caressing her face gently. She giggled, and he wondered if she recognised him…If her little world included him, even if he just caught a small memory in her thoughts.

He almost cried when she patted his mask familiarly, with a smile that showed some of her new teeth. He would have to stop these visits soon or he would feature in her long-term memories. She was so beautiful…She had thick hair the colour of ebony, that Gabriel and he himself had, only it was straight like her Mother's, unlike Gabriel who had curls. Bethany had hazel eyes like her Mother's…While Gabriel inherited his appearance, it was interesting to look upon a child that inherited characteristics from both he and Chara.

Every time he visited, dread tainted the joy. She was so small, so innocent. She had no idea how cruel the world would become. To hide her away was the only gift he could give her.

He remembered the panic that had torn through him as he ran through the house the day she was born, with her in his arms. He had locked the door and had paced the room, not hearing the hysterical cries of his wife or the desperate pleas of the midwife as they banged on the door. He was in a completely different world, remembering his drunken Mother all those years ago, abusing him because she was tired of the local children who pelted her house with stones, the men who leered at her and the women who shunned her. She had moved, desperate to be accepted…

He remembered the boiling water she had thrown at him when he was seven, the heat causing him to writhe and scream in agony. She had taken him to a Doctor and in spite of the pain he had enjoyed having a loving, concerned and frightened Mother. He did not understand the sudden change as she stroked his hair and wept, didn't realise that it was all a ploy for her to feel accepted in the new village. The mother of a child who was burned would be pitied and welcomed more so than a mother who had given birth to a freak. It had not worked though, the Doctor had realised after the wounds began to heal that underneath the burns were marks that were from birth – and then guessed what she had done to her own child. She had had to run before she was arrested. That was the last time he saw her…Seven years of her cursing him, hitting him, crying because of him, screaming at him and causing even more disfigurement and unbelievable pain yet he had still mourned the loss of her.

When he had been lying in hospital, she had read to him stories from the _One Thousand and One Arabian Nights_ series which had opened up a world of excitement and bright colours that he had never experienced before, except through his music that he had taught himself. He had sworn then he would travel to those exotic nations one day, the land that his Mother had opened up for him. It always pained him remembering those weeks with her because it was as if she _could_ have loved him, that she had _wanted_ to, that she had enjoyed reading to him, telling him about his Father who had long since died and singing to him – she had such a beautiful voice.

He had vaguely remembered throughout his younger years, a child, younger than he – or to be precise he remembered a pair of brown eyes…Had he had a sibling? He remembered their lives had continued in separate rooms (he hidden and locked away) and he remembered hearing weeping that joined his own when his Mother yelled, but that was all he recalled from that part of his life that concerned anybody else in that home besides his Mother. Once he had tapped a tune on a wall in the house they had lived in before they had moved, and on the other side a soft and fragile voice joined with the rhythm. Immediately he became obsessed with trying to connect to this other being that united with him and whenever his Mother was in some sort of drunk stupor, even though they were separated in different rooms, they would join in a wordless medley. The child had certainly not been with him in the hospital, but he supposed his Mother had taken him or her when she had vanished.

After that he had been sent to an orphanage which was a whole other chapter in his life of being miserable and an outcast. He had run away, to search for his Mother after two years but had only been successful in being captured by gypsies…He thought of his whole life, where there was more pain, more fear, more chapters of misery. All because of other people. All because of his deformity.

He was running the water and crying the day he had locked himself in the bathroom, the child stirring in his arms. He had no choice, she _couldn't_ live. He would never curse _anybody_ with the same kind of life he had had to live.

He was sitting in the bath himself, his hands trembling as he held her over the water. All he had to do was lower her…Lower her under the water and hold her there for just a few minutes. She wouldn't even fight much, she would squirm a bit, but wouldn't be strong enough to escape his grip. He would hear her muffled cries as her mouth opened and water would gush through her, down her throat, where she would choke. He could envision the bubbles that would spew forth, envision her body stiffening, envision her small little life diminishing.

And he felt horribly sick.

He couldn't do it. He willed it with his mind, but his body wouldn't co-operate. You _fool!_ He screamed to himself, do you want her to grow up and be as disgustingly pitiful and unhappy as you? But he couldn't do it.

He held her out to look at her and he rested his cheek on her small belly. She was alive with so much potential, as much potential as Gabriel had, yet she would never be able to show it. It would be concealed, veiled, a shadow. All because of her damned face. _What could you become if you had been born with an unblemished face?_ He thought. _What could I have become?_

The water was still pouring and he moved forward and with one hand cupped filled it with water and gently drizzled it over her body to clean her. She squirmed from the cold and cried helplessly. His eyes widened and he held her close to him, her face resting on his shoulder. Later he would realise the horrible irony of it all - that he had planned on murdering her without emotion, drowning her in the water where she would have been completely immersed, yet now he comforted her, feeling complete guilt that he had let his little newborn daughter get cold.

The moment he realised he was unable to take her life, he knew he could not keep her. She could not stay with them in this small village. She would have to be sent away, far from towns or cities or people. The only respite he had ever had in his life from the cruelty of people was when he had lived underneath an opera house for those years before travelling around the world – most importantly Persia.

The ideal situation would be to move with her, of course. To raise her himself…He held Bethany tighter. Lord he _wished_ he could do that. He would give _anything_ to guide her, to be there for her. But there was Gabriel his son. It wouldn't be fair to him to have him live in such a remote area which would be perfect for Bethany. Gabriel needed to be near Paris – he was so intelligent already, he needed to go to a proper school, and he had the right to grow up with lots of friends and people around him. Erik had kept money intentionally so his son could go to the most prestigious school. Of course Erik could teach him himself, but prestigious schools meant he would have the right papers to pursue his academia further at university. If they lived far away it would be Gabriel who would be sent away, Gabriel who would be cut off from them. If they stayed and Bethany lived with them, she would grow up taunted and in fear. Word would get around that there was a freak who had been born in the village. The fool doctor or the midwife would talk, word would spread. It would be just like what his Mother had had to endure. Gabriel would also have to suffer, being set apart from the other children for having both a Father and a sister who were different. His life would be as miserable as Bethany's and they would resent each other, he for the torment he received and she for the fact that he was perfect and she was lacking in what the world deemed important.

She would have to be sent away. It was the only way. He could not lock her in the house where lack of sunlight would make her pale and sickly with poor circulation, like what he had to endure. A house, out in the country where she could roam the land and explore and grow happy without knowing what cruelness was. She would stay a couple hours away from him till before she became a certain age where she would start remembering him, then he would sell that house and buy another, further away from people. It was a double edged sword, she would be hurt either way, but if she did not know about the family, then she could not envy the family who was living without her, thinking they discarded her without a thought.

He would interview countless women till he found the right one and the little girl would be treated well. She would grow up and Erik would hire a tutor to teach her how to be an accomplished young woman. Erik had enough money from the 20,000 francs a month he had accumulated over the decades from the Opera Populaire so that both his children could live out their lives more than comfortably.

She would have to go.

He rested his cheek against hers, murmuring, "I tainted your birth precious one, but I will give you the gift of a happy life. A life without fear or persecution."

He would do anything to protect her. It would ruin what he had of his marriage, his wife would never forgive him…But his little girl having a life of normalcy was far more important. Was of the _most_ importance.

"Spying _indeed,"_ Miriam was back, pulling Erik away from his thoughts as she dabbed some ointment onto his cut and tied a bandage around it, "How preposterous."

He hissed from the pain, and remembered his resolve on protecting Bethany with his life.

He grabbed Miriam's hand, and looked at her, his golden eyes flashing dangerously, "You listen to me woman. If you _ever_ believe there is an intruder in your home _again,_ even if you are uncertain, you grab Bethany and you get the Hell out of the house, is that clear? There is no room for stupid heroics, not when it concerns my daughter. You're as delicate as a twig that I could easily snap. You take the horse and you go for help."

Miriam looked at him frightened, especially when his grip around her delicate wrist tightened considerably, "Yes! _Yes,_ of course. Please let go, I promise, I will never do anything like that again!"

He let her hand go and she moved back, rubbing it soothingly in alarm.

"I am sorry Monsieur Morreaux, you are right. How foolish of me," she was apologising quietly.

Erik closed his eyes wearily, rubbing his forehead with the palm of his hand.

His daughter was safe and happy, but his home life…He had never realised how incredibly hard it would be to live with a woman who loathed the very core of his being, who obeyed him only because he was her husband but who would never look at him again with the slightest hint of affection, like she had when she had first kissed him.


	12. Chapter 9

Thank you, thank you!! Thank you, you guys. I really do appreciate it. I'll miss you and I'll miss the story and I'm going to have friggin withdrawels from the lack of internet.

Okay, so I quickly threw this chapter together, but this really will be the last one as I'm leaving first thing tomorrow, and I couldn't resist.

* * *

**Chapter Nine.**

Erik entered the house, completely stiff from his long ride home. Bethany was doing well, Miriam had said the Doctor had come and had looked her over and he was pleased with how she was developing. Erik noticed the young girl had blushed and turned away guiltily when he asked her questions about the doctor, and he grimaced. Young girls could be so pathetic around men, the doctor probably just looked at her and she went all giddy.

He opened the door and a mouth-watering aroma met his senses. A pie, Chara was making a pie for dinner. He took off his gloves and coat, hanging them on the hat stand by the doorway. As soon as his footsteps entered the house, he heard an excited, "Papa's home!" and a thud, the little imp racing through the house and throwing himself at his Father's legs.

Erik smiled indulgently and swung Gabriel up into the air, then held him close.

"I drew you a picture, Papa," Gabriel said.

"Did you now? Well, how about we go in and make your Maman a cup of tea so she can sit down and rest for a moment, and then after I light my pipe I can take a look at it, hmm?" he suggested.

This seemed to please the little one immensely and he started telling Erik about the whole of his day in intense detail, describing the paint set that his Mother had bought him when they went out shopping. He proudly told Erik every single colour that was in the set – red and blue and green and yellow and purple and orange and…His favourite colour was yellow, like his eyes, what was Papa's favourite colour? Did Papa know that if you mixed certain colours you can make another colour? If you mixed red and blue you could make purple.

Erik placed him down as they entered the kitchen and he went over to Chara who didn't turn to face him, continuing to peel the vegetables. He wound his arms around her waist and squeezed her, then pretending not to notice her lack of response, he opened the cupboard above her and pulled the teapot and two cups and saucers down.

"Bethany is well, Chara," he said as he boiled water for the tea.

She didn't respond.

"She has more teeth, and apparently she's very smart," he continued.

She still didn't respond.

"You only have limited time left, Chara, you really should come and see her with me –" he began again.

But she held up her hand for him to stop, her voice cold, "We have been through this before Erik and I wish you would respect my stance. I do not wish to talk about her."

"Chara –"

"It _hurts_ Erik! It hurts like nothing I have ever experienced before. Do you understand that? No, of course you couldn't, because you don't have a heart. You took my daughter away from me without any consideration of my feelings…I…" she squeezed her eyes shut, fighting tears, "Just _leave it alone!"_

He nodded silently, resigned, and continued to make the tea.

* * *

That night after dinner when Gabriel was bathed and put to bed, Erik walked into the bedroom. Chara was sitting at her dressing table, unpinning her hair as she stared blankly at the mirror. When she had finished and her hair hung down her back, she waited for him. It was odd, this little tradition of theirs that they kept in spite of everything, in spite of the barrier between them and in spite of her heartbreaking grudge. He had brushed her hair every night since they were first married, always being intrigued by the softness of it, and the faint smell of flowers – she often pinned flowers into her hair. He moved over to her and wordlessly took the brush off the tabletop.

He held her hair as he brushed it as gently as he could, brushing through the unkind knots.

_Stroke, stroke, stroke…_

He knew he did not need to brush it as long as he did nowadays, and she knew it too, but sat patiently, allowing him to have this kind of contact with her. He only wished she would chatter, like she had done before.

With a sigh after awhile, he finally placed down the brush, and worked on braiding her hair for bed. When he had finished he couldn't resist bending his face down, pulling the material of her nightdress down her shoulder, and kissing her skin lingeringly. She stiffened, but surprisingly did not fight him. And he loathed the fact he knew she didn't because she thought she was supposed to remain obedient. His mouth scattered kisses over her shoulder and up her neck, murmuring huskily, "I miss you Chara…When may I have my wife back?"

He finally surrendered, stepping back, and she stood. But before she could turn around, he pulled her close to him, kissing her cheek softly. She leant against him for a moment, then slowly turned around, not facing him. With his finger he tilted her chin up and his eyes locked into hers questioningly before his mouth met hers. He pulled away slightly and raised an eyebrow, wondering what she would do. For a moment his heart jolted as she seemed to melt, seemed to reciprocate finally but at the last moment when he bent back down to kiss her she moved her face so his lips touched her cheek.

She looked around as if trying to think of something to say, biting her lip, then finally said, "...O-oh, Gabriel drew you another piece today that he didn't show you, though I'm afraid he's not as good at using charcoal as he is with taking apart all the clocks in the house...Which is why I bought him the paint set. I don't think I could have dealt with more charcoal on my walls and on the floor…And everywhere."

He tried again, now that they seemed to be civil, "Chara, you should come see her. She's beautiful, she –"

She pulled away from him so forcefully she backed into the dressing table, knocking it. Clips, pins, jewellery, flowers and her brush knocked off the tabletop, but she didn't seem to notice as she moved away to pull down the eiderdown and bed sheets.

* * *

It was a week later. He was out, buying provisions for dinner. He had thought it would take him a long while to buy this particular type of meat. It had taken Chara a while to choose a satisfactory cut a few days before. He was quite pleased with himself as he went back into the house, placing it in the kitchen. Chara was brilliant with marinating and herbs, it would taste superb.

"Gabriel, where are you?" he called and went into his bedroom when he heard a noise coming from there.

His heart froze and he stopped in mid-stride as he saw his wife placing her gowns and things into a trunk, opened out on the bed. Gabriel looked up from his picture book, sprawled on the floor.

Chara looked at him guiltily, "I thought you would be a little longer," but then continued to pack.

He could barely speak as he felt his world falling apart, but he managed a hoarse, "What are you doing, Chara?"

"Gabriel, why don't you go outside and pick some daisies?" she said lightly, and Gabriel picked up his book and left the room, then she answered Erik properly, "I don't know, Erik, I'm – I'm going away for a time, and I'm... I'm taking Gabriel with me."

Fear spread through his sorrow and before he knew it he had moved forward, taking her by the shoulders, he shook as he said, "You – you are not going anywhere. Do you hear me? If I have to lock –"

"Oh don't be melodramatic, Erik. We both know you're locking women away days have long gone," she turned and continued to pack.

But he took a hold of her and pushed her back into the wall, his voice quivering, "You _can't_ take Gabriel from me!"

"What would you have me do?" she spat at him, "Abandon _both_ my children to your _loving_ care? You ripped one from me...I'm leaving with my son, Erik, and the only thing you can do to stop me is if you wish to strike me."

Erik's teeth gritted and he breathed hard, holding her with all the force he had, knowing his hands must be hurting her shoulders but unable to stop. He closed his eyes, trying to collect his thoughts and tears were streaming down his face.

"Let me go Erik," she was saying gently.

"I…I c-can't," he managed to stutter and slumped down, his face on her shoulder, his tears soaking her dress, "Don't take Gabriel from me, Chara... Please...He's my _son_..."

She rested her chin on the top of his head, crooning softly, her hand reaching up and taking his face, "Oh, Erik, I'm sorry…I really, really am…I never said it was forever, I just...Need time to think, to be with my child without your influence constantly over us..."

He wouldn't let go, and slowly she had to slide down to the floor because of his weight, and let him rest his head on her lap. She was so gentle, so lovely, and he realised, despite her words telling him that it would not be forever, that he had lost everything.

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	13. Chapter 10

Hey all, I'm back. Thank you all for your reviews and your patience. It'd be lovely to get reviews from you all, as I have a horrible cold and feel like crud. Thank yoooooooooooooou.

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**Chapter Ten.**

The knife slid through the meat easily as Chara prepared the evening meal. Yes, she was leaving, but she knew that in spite of the pain involved, Erik would be glad later that they had shared one last meal together before the long absence. It would most probably be the last decent meal he would have until she returned – before they wed she had questioned how he had survived all those years. He had eaten sparsely, and besides that he had rarely slept at normal hours – he had been like a nocturnal creature of the night. She remembered her sister had called him Sir Vladimir in jest, and while Chara had shown shock at that dark epithet, she had seen the similarities between him and the infamous Count Dracula. She remembered chiding her sister, saying it was vile to compare this gentleman to a murderer of incredible evil who slept in a coffin and pined shamelessly for a beautiful woman which had led him to do great wickedness. She still did not know what had disturbed her the most, her sister sighing and saying dreamily, "Yes, but it was all _very_ romantic wasn't it?" or Erik chuckling as if he knew something she would find unfavourable. She understood now, after the years of being with him, why he had chuckled so darkly and she wished beyond anything that she could share it with her sister, share the bitter truth about the identity of the "philanthropic" Monsieur Morreaux. Her sister had appreciated irony and after everything that had happened to her, Chara had a sense that Marianne would have found her elder sister's sham of a marriage unbelievably hilarious. Chara's stomach twisted uneasily at the thought of her sister and so she steered her mind back to cooking the dinner.

"You're going to visit your Father, Gabriel says," she heard Erik say behind her from the kitchen doorway.

She continued with her work, "Yes, well, I don't really have anywhere else to go now, do I? One can only go to family in a time like this, and since he is my only family now…"

"Holland is such a long way away," he said sadly, "And your Father…Do you think after everything, he would welcome you? Why don't I just hire you a room in Paris?"

She placed the knife on the tabletop carefully, restraining herself so it did not slam down. She had to remind herself that her Father's animosity towards her was not Erik's fault and he was not bringing it up to cause her hurt.

"The length is the _point_ Erik," she replied, "I want to be as far from here as possible. I want a neutral place where I can think properly without fear that you could be watching me from a distance. And don't you argue with me over that factor, because you know that is true as well as I. And about my Father – you know we have begun writing again, and his letters seem affable enough. I expect his old age and pangs of loneliness have dimmed his resentment towards me. Especially since any hope that Marianne…Anyway, he is bound to want to see Gabriel finally, and if worse does come to the worst, he would never send me away; he values hospitality and etiquette too much."

She had not heard him move over to her until she had finished what she was saying, and he took her hands in his, "But why tonight?" his voice was pleading, "Please, just stay the night. Just stay with me – I won't make you do anything, I swear – we'll just talk. I don't think I can bear the thought of sleeping alone."

"No, I must leave tonight," she replied firmly, "You know how Gabriel grows restless during long journeys; this way he can sleep through a great deal of it and not be bothersome. And I have already paid for a hansom and a willing driver."

"I can't let you go alone," he protested, tightening his hold on her hand, "I won't. Who knows what can happen? Who knows if the driver is trustworthy or respectable towards women? I –"

Chara sighed, "Erik, the driver is from a reputable company…And…" she swallowed nervously and turned back to the dinner preparations nervously, "And somebody trustworthy _is_ accompanying me on the journey."

She winced as his voice turned to a low growl, "And who may _that_ be?"

She understood his silence but lightened her words to try and appease him, to try and convince him there was nothing to worry about and it was silly to be concerned, "Oh, only Josef."

She could not look at him and her hands began to tremble as she began cutting vegetables. Josef was in his late twenties and a man who rarely spoke. It was rumoured around their village that he could not speak at all and was in fact a mute, but Chara had discovered he did but he had to trust whoever it was before he conversed with them freely, in his foreign accent. He could speak and understand well enough, but was not completely flawless with the language and had to concentrate when in a lengthy discussion. Chara sympathized immensely, remembering her years in Holland, having to speak in an unfamiliar tongue.

When she and Erik had first married, the plot of land had been like a wild jungle. Erik had assumed she would not want to purchase this particular cottage, had assumed that she would want an already perfectly cultivated garden and so he had begun to decline the owner when she had stopped him. She was in love with the fact that the garden needed to be tamed, that the overgrown shrubs and the lush trees hid beautiful wildflowers in its heart that she only discovered when she wandered through it and became lost herself. She had pushed through the foliage and had stayed hidden even when she could hear Erik calling her. His voice seemed distant and it stirred something within her that for the moment, she was part of the garden's enigma. The garden had secrets and she wanted to own it, to possess it, to be a part of it. She stepped back when she could hear Erik making his way towards her, but couldn't stop the surprised shriek when she fell back and landed in murky and muddied water, which had been a hidden pond.

At once she could feel his strong hold pulling her back to her feet, and his voice reproached her, "You stopped me from declining the man, then you disappear?"

He began to press through the shrubbery to return to the cottage, but she pulled him back to her with all her strength so that they remained hidden. He looked at her surprised at the unnatural exhilaration in her hazel eyes. She clung to his waistcoat, pulling him down to her height and her voice was guttural and low as she said to him, "I _want_ it, Erik."

"You…You want this place? But it's untamed, a mess, it will –"

She giggled and one of her hands slid up his chest, up his neck and to the unmasked side of his face, "It will take time to establish, won't it?"

He did not answer her, puzzled still, and she continued huskily, "Isn't it stifling in here, all alone, just the two of us? It's so _hot_…Just think, we could spend hours at a time here together, renovating this land…_Hours_."

The owner of the plot of land must have been confused when the two of them emerged from the depths of the garden, the back of the Madame's gown sodden and coated in mud, arranging her suddenly untidy hair, and the Monsieur smoothing out his clothes. What had they been doing down there for those long minutes? Well, the garden was rather derelict and the poor young bride looked particularly delicate, perhaps she had gotten frightened after becoming lost and had got herself attached to some wayward branches, and it had taken awhile to disentangle her. Who knows? But those possible questions of curiosity (curiosity was the kind way of describing mere human prying) ebbed away rapidly at light speed after he received the overly generous offer for the cottage and the grounds from the husband.

For the first few months they united to work on the garden. They spent hours like she promised and ended their days entwined together on patches of grass amongst flowers. Then…Well…Things began to unravel between them and soon she spent her days alone. One morning Linus appeared, a gnarly old man in at least his seventh decade who had spent his life gardening. Erik had hired him to help her and he brought along his new assistant (Josef) to assist.

Josef was new to the village. He did not tell her where he was from or anything of his life, but she did not probe him either, because it was none of her business. Dark curls framed his face and touched his shoulders, a gold hoop hung from an earlobe and his eyes were a mesh of deep brown and olive green. She didn't say much and he was quiet, but together under Linus's direction (when he wasn't slumbering after feasting on cakes or biscuits baked by Chara) they carved beauty from the fierce wilderness.

It was the day they rescued an unfortunate duck who's feet had become entangled from the reeds in the pond and had been struggling to escape. She had looked up as Josef approached her as she was pruning a bush, with the creature in his arms and laughing at the poor animal's pitiful state they entered the house where she set to work trying to free it while Josef held it still.

Just as she cut the last bit of reed she looked up suddenly sensing her husband's presence.

"Erik…"

He stepped forward as Josef instinctively stepped back, holding the duck gently despite his nervousness.

It had not occurred to her that he had not known about Josef. How _foolish _of her, she cursed herself, knowing he would overreact but if she could placate him enough perhaps he would not resort to violence. They barely spoke anymore and he was always so wrapped up in his music and sculptures which attracted so many investors, even foreign ones. He had only seen Linus, assuming any assistant of his would be of the same vintage as he. She closed her eyes for a moment – well, she had to be honest…It was nice having a friend that he didn't know about and frighten away because of his possessiveness and jealousy. It had been nice while it lasted.

"Who in the _hell_ is this? And what are you doing with my wife?" he snarled.

"Erik, this is Josef. He is here to help with the garden –" she began soothingly.

But he interrupted her harshly, "I hired an old man named Linus!"

"Yes, yes," she moved forward to him, gently rubbing his arm, "But this is Linus's assistant Josef. He contributes to the more physical side of things."

Erik looked in sheer scorn at the top half of the young man's muscular bare body, which had a scarlet and gold serpent tattooed on his upper back, the top of its body and its head slithering over his shoulder blade and resting on his collarbone.

Erik turned to her mockingly, "Where's the _apple_, Eve?"

She couldn't help but roll her eyes and murmur, "Please Erik, do stop being ridiculous."

"_Ridiculous_, little wife? As ridiculous as you choosing not to tell your husband about this assistant who _contributes to the more physical side of things?"_

Chara blushed and loathed herself because of it. There was absolutely no reason to blush, to feel shame for spending time with one of the hired help on the work he was paid to do.

Josef looked confusedly from husband to wife, then moved forward hesitantly, "I…I am Josef, Monsieur. I tend to your wife and help the garden."

Chara winced at Josef's wrong choice of words and tears of frustration welled up as he held out his hand and Erik refused to shake it and instead stared at him scrutinizingly.

"Oh for god's sake!" she finally threw up her hands, "I'm your wife and I can't even gain your trust, yet I have never done anything to deserve your doubt!" then she stormed out of the house.

She dropped on to a swing that was attached to a thick branch of a Weeping Willow and fumed. Tears dripped down her cheeks and she hated herself for acting like a child and that she had no other way to express herself. A few moments later Josef seated himself beside her quietly. She wished he hadn't, she could just picture Erik's reaction to _that_.

"Please Josef," she said quietly, "Please go away."

He seemed to understand because he nodded, "Of course," but set down the duck on her lap and took her hand, dropping seeds into her palm. Then he tugged a lock of her hair and quickly moved away, leaving Chara who could not help but smile as the duck greedily consumed the seeds.

She was stroking the snow white, green, blue and brown feathers of the rescued bird and had already decided to call him Monty when she heard her husband's footsteps behind her. Oh, how kind, she thought sarcastically, he's allowing me to know of his presence for once. He was so good at creeping up on her and he was always amused at how he could wrap his arms around her before she could even jump.

He leaned against the back of the swing seat and rested his head against hers, murmuring the closest to an apology she knew she would receive, though it did sound heartfelt, "Bear with me Chara dear…I have problems with trust…I have never really acquired the talent for it."

She could not help but shoot back acidly, "So am I to be always punished because of your past experiences?"

He said nothing in reply, but nuzzled her neck with his cheek, then slowly came around and sat beside her, pulling her close. He stiffened as Monty nipped one of his fingers but for the sake of peace he decided it was probably wise not to antagonize the duck. At least not while Chara was around, anyway, "Chara, you really don't realize how much I have changed over the years, even just being with you. For years before I was by myself, I could not trust a single soul…Please be patient…This stubborn marble pride of mine is chipping away, I assure you, it just needs time…"

Chara swallowed, fiddling with her wedding ring pensively, "Josef stays, Erik."

"Mmm…" he responded, not convincingly.

"Do you remember that charming young man that delivered eggs to our door when we were first married?" she turned her face to look directly at him and she knew he was trying not to fidget uneasily, "Such a nice man. Well, it was interesting how he stopped delivering to this address but continued to go to everybody else's properties. It was just about the same time that you built the coop for me and bought those five or six chickens wasn't it?"

He said nothing, but let her continue.

"Erik," her voice was light, but did not hide the sharp undertones, "Josef stays. Trivial things in the past I ignored and said nothing about, knowing you have your issues, but I grow weary of you being convinced if I even so much as look at another person I will abandon you. I need Josef to help me. Linus is old and incapable of everything but directing Josef. You will restrain yourself and you will be gracious to him as he is a good worker. Do you understand Erik?"

"Yes, lovely wife," he replied and she could not help but laugh at his faux solemnity, her resentment fading, knowing that this would not be the end of it all, but he had relented over Josef and that was remarkable progress, "The runt can stay."

She gently placed Monty down on the grass and allowed her husband to pick her up and carry her to the house. He was a good man, he really was. He was just incredibly broken, and it frightened her sometimes, that she would never be enough to mend him.

That was years ago, even before she had been pregnant with Gabriel. He had always kept that awkward antagonism towards Josef, even though he thought he kept it hidden from her, but he was civil towards him whenever he had to deal with him, so she could not complain.

Erik was glaring at her now in the kitchen and he spat, "How long have you had this _perfect_ plan, Chara, if I may ask?"

"Since yesterday," she thought it best to be honest, "It was all a rush; I simply panicked. I realized Gabriel doesn't even have a memory of his baby sister being born. It frightened me how a toddler's mind can be so malleable, as supple as the clay you use for your sculptures. And then I realized…"

"Go on," his voice trembled, but he probed her nonetheless.

"I realized," she explained "that that is what I have always been, since I was a small girl. I was always obeying, because I thought that everyone else – the men in my life, my Father and then my husband – were wiser than me. With the whole chaos with Marianne, even though I hid it from Father for those months I did what I thought he would have done. And then after the birth of my daughter I assumed you knew what was best. Even though I argued and cried, I relented because that is what I have always done…And look where that has led me Erik – my life is a mess all because I have never thought for myself."

Erik had seated himself at the kitchen table, his hands clasped on the tabletop, "You won't return. You will go to your Father and realize you and our son are better off there, without me."

Chara sighed and placed the knife on the table. She wiped her hands on her apron and came over to him, kneeling down and taking his hands in hers, "If you understood from that, that I will never return to you, than you are sorely mistaken. I took my vows I made under God seriously Erik. Gabriel is as much yours as he is mine, to think that you would consider that I would be so cruel as to deprive you of being his Father and deprive him of his Papa…" she rested her head on his lap, "I only need time, Erik. Only time."

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	14. Chapter 11

Thanks very, very much! Sorry for the wait. There should be another chapter on this and on A Peculiar Arrangement on Sunday. Reviews would be lovely. :)

Eeeergh. I know there's too much dialogue towards the end. I've been bashing around this chapter for days and finally I've had enough. I need to post this to get back into fanfiction, I've been focusing so much on my original work lately that I seem to need a bit of practice for fanfiction. Feel free to agree. It's odd how I seem to be in seperate mindsets for the different fiction that I write. Here goes.

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**__**Chapter Eleven.**_

They had eaten together, their last meal as a family for however long Chara would be absent for. She knew it was one of her husband's favourite meals and she hoped that in spite of the circumstances, that he had enjoyed it and that the flavour of the succulent meat had not been wasted or turned to ash on his tongue. He was now playing with their son as she added the last few things to her luggage.

Her jewellery box she kept on her dresser. Perhaps that would ease a little of his worry, that she would leave one of the most precious of her possessions as proof that she would come back to him. It had belonged to her Mother before she had died when Chara had been a young girl. A vague memory still teased Chara's mind, of her Mother giggling mischievously and murmuring to her quietly that she must never tell Papa, but a previous suitor before she had even been courting Chara's Father had given it to her. After she died Chara took possession of the jewellery box in an almost selfish manner. She didn't mourn the loss of her Mother's jewels which were given to Marianne by her Father (all except for a necklace, her wedding and engagement bands and a few small trinkets) but it was as if the jewellery box belonged to her and her alone, the moment her Mother had shared such a secret with her and Marianne had no right to claim it and her Father had no right to give it away.

She opened the wooden carved lid however and fingered through the mass of jewellery her husband had given her over the years. Rubies, moonstones, diamonds…From amongst these she pulled out a simpler piece. A rose carved out of jade adorning a broken chain of beads. The one her sister had given her to wear the evening Monsieur Morreaux had first come to dine with them. She thought of that night, and how he had grasped on to the rose around her throat so tightly he broke the chain…

* * *

They had eaten their fill. He had cooked for them a fine meal like he had promised and he and Chara had consumed a nice bottle of wine that complimented the cuisine. Chara was aware that though Marianne was chattering away excitedly as she sat on the lounge with her feet tucked underneath her, about something or other, Monsieur Morreaux was barely paying attention to the effervescent girl. He and Chara were seated at the table and she tried not to blush as she felt underneath the table his gloved fingers entwining through hers. She did not look at him as she squeezed it back, then worried that maybe that had been too forward of her. _What_ must he have thought about such a brazen action? She let go of his hand instantly.

"Why don't we go for a walk?" he mused, interrupting Marianne's rambling after her hand parted from his.

Chara feared that Marianne would assume she was invited as well, but the girl looked from the guest in their room to her sister and grinned as if she knew a secret.

"I am becoming rather tired," she patted her mouth and stood up apologetically, "Thank you for dinner Monsieur Morreaux, but I do hope you forgive me if I decline the walk and retire to bed…Chara, could you please help me?"

Chara wondered what on earth her sister could be needing help for, but obligingly stood and followed her to her room. As soon as the door was closed and the lamp was lit, Marianne giggled and swung open her cupboard, rifling frantically through her belongings.

"What are you doing?" Chara asked cluelessly.

"Chara," Marianne spoke as if she were talking to a child, "He wishes to take you for a stroll. You must look your best for him."

Chara headed towards the door in utter perplexity, her hand on the doorknob, "For goodness sake, if that's all that you want me for, then –"

"No, please!" Marianne sounded so desperate that Chara turned back to her, "Please…Let me help you. You're so dainty, but you never flaunt it."

"It's night-time Marianne," Chara reminded her sensibly, "I highly doubt it would make much of a difference –"

"It makes even _more_ of a difference!" her sister said affronted, "You have the moon over you and the stars and the trees silver in the light, and –"

Chara could not help but laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. Her sister should have been destined for the theatre, with her dramatic and poetic look on life. It was absurd and a waste of time, as if it _mattered_ what she looked like, as long as she looked decent and sensible. But, she supposed after a few moments, it could not hurt. And at least her sister looked as if she had forgotten all about the keeping her baby nonsense. Here was the usual Marianne, only caring for trivialities.

So she sat down on her sister's bed obligingly and allowed Marianne to fiddle with her hair and style it as best she could in the short period they had, and apply rouge to her cheeks and lipstick to her mouth. When it was done Chara stood, inspecting herself in the mirror. How silly, she thought, she was only going for a stroll yet here she was dolled up as if she were going to an opera. She was about to step out when Marianne took her hand, "The finishing touch," she announced as she turned Chara's wrists towards her and with a small crystal bottle of perfume she added a touch of it onto her skin. Then she squirted a few drops behind Chara's ears. Chara quickly moved away, ignoring Marianne's giggle as she sprayed some on her neck.

She moved from the room and took her lace shawl and bonnet off the stand by the front door. She ignored her sister's glare from her room (she imagined what Marianne would say later once she returned, "All that effort and you waste it with dull modesty!") as she draped the shawl over her shoulders and arms and tied the bonnet's ribbon underneath her chin. The weather had turned cold and she would never risk her health for purposes of vanity. She did have to repress a feeling of disappointment however when Monsieur Morreaux who barely looked at her face took her arm and they walked out without a word.

_All that effort…_She realised with a pang that her thoughts mirrored what she thought Marianne would say later and she reprimanded herself for being so superficial. As if it _mattered_ if he thought she looked pretty…

The air was crisp on her skin, even though she had a shawl on, and she moved closer to Monsieur Morreaux in an attempt to absorb in some warmth from human contact. He did not seem to notice the evening chill as they meandered through the streets in a calm silence and she wondered what he was thinking about. She did not need to press him however for he spoke as they moved to the next street.

"That dwelling is pitiful," he said acridly, "I will find your sister new premises."

Chara smiled in amusement at this, "Oh? And where would it be situated?"

He looked at her, raising an eyebrow, "You mock me?"

That simple question subdued her and her smile faltered, "Of course not. You are a good man and I am sure you mean well, but you live underneath a _cathedral_. You spoke before of some sort of fortune you have acquired. I appreciate your gesture, but I think you should focus on taking care of yourself. You were so sick before and I am sure it is because of your meagre accommodation. Perhaps you should start spending some of that money on yourself and procuring a proper home…"

He chuckled slightly at this, "Have you finished trying to organise my life, Mademoiselle?"

She blushed at his statement, but then blushed deeper when she pondered the depth of what he meant. She hadn't meant it that way at all, she wasn't so presumptuous as to _tell_ a grown man how to live, but she supposed she was so used to arranging people's lives. From her irresponsible sister to her absentminded but always busy Father, to the household, to the chores, to the meals, to the bills…

"I'm so sorry," she mumbled, "I was just…"

"I know what you were trying to do," he said kindly, "You were trying to help. But I think you should stop being such an old worried goat and perhaps allow somebody to _help you_. That apartment is no place for a pregnant young woman, I'm sure it's infested with fleas and I saw you both shivering. I will find a more suitable place and don't argue with me about the rent. It will be taken care of."

She bit her lip, but did not argue or make a fuss. Surely he was over-exaggerating whatever means he had. He meant well, but she didn't need words or promises. She –

"You still have trouble believing me, don't you?" he asked, amusement edging his tone.

"I believe you mean well," she chose her words carefully, "But you're practically homeless, you live in a cathedral…"

"Oh I bet your God would have had issues with you, had you have been one of the people He used in the Bible. Just think of it – Mademoiselle Chara as the prophet Moses. Instead of trusting in your God and waiting for Him to part the sea, you would have been instructing everybody to make rafts out of spare wood to sail over the waves," he said dryly.

"And are you telling me you are somehow divine and I should wait on you to provide a miracle?" she chuckled, "I stopped believing in fairy tales a long time ago Monsieur. One makes their own luck in this world. One does not wait for a Prince to steal them away from a wicked stepmother...One must take responsibility for themselves. If only life were so simple...That if you were good throughout a trial you would live happily ever after."

They stopped walking and she blinked in surprise as they stood outside the majestic cathedral.

He let go of her arm and turned to face her, "Ah, but I am no mere fairy tale. Indeed, I am a legend and an Angel," he looked up in thought at the sky and stars, his feelings veiled to her as his face was still lifted, he continued "Here on this planet to help wandering children like yourself..."

"A legend," she folded her arms, "My, my, you _do_ think highly of yourself Monsieur Morreaux. However, you do seem to be far away from any kingdom you might own."

"Yes. A creature of night turned mortal, left to walk the earth, seemingly alone the rest of its life, never quite allowed...You find me amusing?" he stopped as her hand raised to her mouth to try and hide her giggling.

"An Angel and creature turned mortal?" she asked amused, "Oh, you would have to be Lucifer for that, but I hardly think he of all people would choose a _church_ to dwell in."

"Indeed, do you not fear me?"

She circled around him in mock examination, staring at his dark clothes, his boots, his coat then rested the tip of her finger on her mouth as she analysed him, "I see no horns, or black wings, so no...You don't frighten me, Monsieur Angel, not anymore..."

"Anymore?"

She held out her hands and dropped them to her waist and answered as if it were obvious, "You _did_ nearly die remember...I was...scared and worried then..."

"You were concerned over me?" he asked, genuinely surprised.

She stared at his figure for a moment before answering; pondering this man she had acquainted herself with. He was so articulate, so clever, so talented, yet he sounded as if he were a child begging for a scrap of encouragement or optimism. It was all very odd; it contrasted so much with his indifferent demeanour he showed to the rest of the world. So she answered as carefully as she could, "Of course I was concerned. Only somebody with a heart of steel would think otherwise who tended to you. If something had happened to you I would have been beside myself not knowing what to do! I wouldn't want to lose you. I felt like my heart would weep if- Oh, goodness!" she cringed at that last bit. It must have been the wine over dinner to cause her to be so sentimentally trite. Well, she tried to reason with herself, she said nothing wrong. It was human nature to feel compassion for another, was it not? It was a virtue, a Godly virtue.

But she still tried to explain it away as she felt her skin burn with embarrassment under the cool air, turning her head away, "I suppose...I am still feeling the effects of the wine...Loosens the tongue..."

She looked back at him when she could feel his hands taking hers, "Quite...Perhaps a little late night tea to clear your mind?"

"Sounds like a good idea," she smiled accepting, "And you have to tell me the reason the Angel has chosen a cathedral to..." she pondered the last word.

"Haunt?" he responded, for some reason entertained.

She crinkled her nose in thought and shook her head, "No, that would mean you were a ghost. Angels don't haunt dwellings. They watch and observe and guard."

"Then by all means, my lovely little charge...Allow me to guard your path down to my abode," he let go of one of her hands and gestured to the door that would lead downstairs to his lodging.

Her free hand went to her mouth as she tried to conceal her smile, but when she saw the twinkle in his own eye she laughed outright.

The corners of his mouth were slightly upturned as he said in jest, "Wouldn't you find it delightful if I always spoke like the white knight of stories?"

"I would find it more dreary," she replied straightaway, "There is a reason why I could not finish the horrible novels Marianne reads. I'm not certain I could stand so much gallantry and fainting in your arms- Oh, I mean-" her face warmed some more as she realised her words were running away again, "Ohhh, that's the last time I accept a third glass of wine so easily!"

He said nothing but laughed softly. It was an odd thought that came to her mind as she let him take his arm once more and lead her through the doorway, that it was almost as if he hadn't laughed much in his past and that he was still getting used to it.

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	15. Chapter 12

Thank you so unbelievably much you guys! Yay!

otally appreciate them, totally in hurry, totally not meant to be on the computer, totally only have time to post this and will totally comment on your reviews tomorrow!

THANK YOU! ARGH, IN HURRY!!

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**Chapter Twelve.**

It was complete and utter darkness as Monsieur Morreaux led her down the stairs to his dwelling. She looked down cautiously so she could attempt to see where she was going, but she did not know who she was fooling. She couldn't even see her lavender blue slippers peeking from underneath her dress as she treaded hesitantly. She was completely trusting this man who seemed to have feline and impeccable sense of sight in the dimness. Perhaps he had worked in some sort of mine in his past? She had heard those workers were used to the dark. Apparently they reached the bottom of the stairs as he stopped and gestured for her to stay where she was as he effortlessly meandered around the room, setting the candles alight. When he finished, he motioned for her to move forward, and he collected a few cushions and placed them together so she could sit on them comfortably.

He offered her tea and she accepted graciously. When they were both settled, a nice warm tea-cup in their hands they began to talk.

"You mentioned your sister wants to keep her child once it is born," he took a sip from his tea, "And I judge by that pout you have on your face right now, that that displeases you."

"Of course it displeases me," Chara answered, "It would serve nobody any ounce of good if she kept the baby. The child would grow up tainted a bastard with barely any beneficial prospects and her life would be ruined. She would never find a decent husband – and when I say decent, I don't mean an unemployed drunkard who will beat her. Of course with her fair face she would be capable of finding a husband, but she deserves a good husband. One with money, one who is gentle and one who will care for her. With a bastard child on her hip she could only ever marry a fool who would hurt her."

Monsieur Morreaux said nothing, then finally he spoke musingly, "Does it tire you, Mademoiselle Chara, to constantly be her Mother?"

Chara let out a laugh, "Be her Mother? I take care of her, but I hardly think –"

"You two had an argument over dinner tonight. It was over whether _she should eat her peas,"_ he said trying to hide his amusement.

"Yes, well…Greens are very good for an unborn child," she tried to defend herself, and realised after she said that it came out harsher than she intended. Well, no, not harsher. Anger had flared up that he would tease her, but she had not meant to show her annoyance.

"I believe you enjoy taking care of another. I think you _need_ to be _needed,"_ he observed.

"And I believe you enjoy nitpicking. Do forgive me, but this line of conversation bores me," she settled her cup beside her.

"I apologise, I did not mean to offend. What conversation would be more fitting for the occasion?" he thought for a moment, "Ah, you seek proof to my mysterious wealth."

"I don't need proof," she said uneasily, "I am not so crass as to demand a review of a man's financial business."

He laughed at this and stood gracefully, moving over to his belongings. He returned after a moment with a velvet box and a key and placed them in her hands.

"A mere trinket though it may be, I do believe from it you will gain an insight into my _financial business._"

"No really, I have no right to pry –" she tried to argue feebly. Oh lord, she was a hypocrite. She knew how sensitive men could be about their earnings, but curiosity was beginning to weigh upon her once he handed her the box. Whatever could it _be?_

"Nonsense, Mademoiselle, and stop fretting needlessly over your curiosity. You are from a long line of ancestors who were curious. The very first of your kin, Eve, suffered from it. My wealth _does_ concern you, for how do you expect yourself to believe it when I say I can pay for your sister to be in a more suitable dwelling, fitting to her station?" he asked.

"I believe it because you say so," she said sharply, "If what you say is untrue, then she will remain where she is. She has a bed to sleep in, clothes to wear and food to eat. No matter how meagre they may be, she is surviving. If you speak the truth, then she has better lodging. So it does not matter."

She placed down the box and key firmly, and stared at him, raising her chin. Then she picked up her cup of tea and took a sip from it. How _dare_ he compare her with _Eve?_

He shrugged slightly, "Suit yourself. It belonged to an executioner and magician once, from a royal court. In Persia. It is a part of history – I thought one as educated as yourself would appreciate it. But never mind…"

_Damn…_ Curiosity was pressing upon her heavier. Well…It _did_ sound intriguing. And it wasn't out of idle prying into this man's affairs. There was no harm in looking.

"An executioner _and_ a magician," she mulled over as she picked the box up, "Now that _is_ a person with many talents. A murderer _and_ one who entertains!"

"In some places Mademoiselle, entertainment and murder are one and the same," he replied handing her the key.

"Yes, but those places aren't civilised. They are full of infidels. They are not one of us," she said as she unlocked the box.

She lifted the lid and could not repress her gasp. She had not known what to expect, but a sheathed dagger was certainly not it. Her fingers gently traced the hilt of the weapon, and she placed the box on her lap as she lifted the weapon out. She slid the dagger out of the sheath. It was a handsome, sharp, twisted blade, but that was not what was astonishing. The pommel was the shape of an imperial leopard, in intricate detail. The nose, the ears, the opened mouth with his sharp teeth, the spots and the ears were all carved to perfection. His eyes were two round pieces of onyx. This must have cost him a fortune! The handle had a mahogany hue to it, deep and richly red. The sheath was just as intricate, with what looked like Arabic words etched into the leather.

"Oh, this is fit for a king," she breathed in awe.

"Mmm," he agreed, "Or a favoured one of a Shah."

She looked at him sharply, "Did you steal this?" for that could be the only possible explanation. Here was an ordinary man in an ordinary place, it was absurd to…

"I told you once I was a magician," he said quietly, "I am not who you assume I am, Mademoiselle. I am not a man to be pitied, for I have done –"

"That is _enough!"_ she stood suddenly, the dagger falling to the floor with a clatter, "All this obsession that you have with creating an enigma for yourself. It's ridiculous – you are a man who was in a war, you –"

"I do not mean to frighten you," his words were gentle, "But if you are to accept my help, I do think you deserve to know at least a little about me."

Chara swallowed frightened. Where was the man who had comforted her in just playing music? This new person had a past she did not know if she wanted to hear. She had _saved_ this man's life! _What_ had she saved?

"I am going to go now," she said tersely, trying but failing to keep the nerves out of her voice, "I am sorry that –"

Suddenly it seemed as if the foundations of the very ground were shaking from an apocalyptic event. Noise was tearing through the basement of the cathedral, pounding, loud, majestic, ear-drum piercing music. She fell to her knees, her hands covering her ears but of course it was to no avail. The organ, the cathedral organ practicing for tomorrow's morning mass. The rhythm, the music pulled her down, weighing over her. She felt as if she were drowning, no, not drowning. She felt as if she were being pulled down, down, down…

She managed to look up at Monsieur Morreaux, who had thrown his head back, his arms held out, his mouth open but she could not hear what he was saying as he was laughing.

_"This is why I choose to live under a cathedral. This is why Lucifer chooses a church as his dwelling."_

He lowered himself and pulled her to him, cupping her cheek with his hand.

"I need to go! It's too loud!" she shouted. He did not seem to understand her, so she shrieked, _"It's too loud!"_

He ignored what she said and instead stared at her, stared so hard it disconcerted her. His hand dropped from her face to her neck and for the first time he noticed the jade rose pendant. His fist clenched around it, and she winced as he pulled on it so hard, the beads for the chain scraped her skin.

The music stopped after a few minutes, but its echo reverberated around them before it dimmed into nothing. His grip had been tight, but it loosened as the music began to lose its power. She could feel the chain break around her neck, and she hesitantly said, "Please Sir…Take me back to where my sister is. Please."

They walked back in silence, her frightened and he – he seemed to be lost in music. They stopped outside the apartment and before she went in, she murmured, "You are certainly an enigma, Monsieur Morreaux."

He looked at her tiredly, "Have I frightened you too much? Will I see you again?"

She bowed her head and said nothing as she departed from him, and entered the apartment. She quietly walked into Marianne's room and found her asleep, with dozens of blankets over her. But still, her skin was icy as she touched her face gently.

He was right. This was no place fit for a young pregnant girl. She bent down and placed a kiss on her sister's cheek. She could not refuse this man's help. She had no choice. And he very well knew it.


	16. Chapter 13

Thank you so much you two guys. I really appreciate it. Hugs for both of you.

I know the story's a bit boring, but I promise it's about to get better.

Please review if you read this. I swear it's get better.

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**Chapter Thirteen.**

Chara was preparing breakfast for her sister in the small kitchen when she heard coughing and her sister wander from her bedroom with a blanket wrapped around her as she sat down. Chara looked at her worriedly and wordlessly came over, putting her hand over Marianne's forehead.

She bit her lip, "Are you ill?"

Marianne covered her mouth and coughed some more, "It's only the flu," she avoided her sister's eyes and Chara knew instantly that there was something more to it than that.

She helped Marianne up, "You are going straight to bed, my dear. You are pregnant, you cannot afford to risk staying up."

Marianne leaned against her gratefully as Chara guided her back to her room and lay her down, "I'm making you some eggs, and afterwards I have to go back home but will return later. Father is coming home from his business trip today, so I need to be back so he won't be suspicious. But you sleep, love, and hopefully it will disappear."

"Mmm," Marianne responded, snuggling under the blankets, "Please don't force me to eat. My throat is so sore, I…" she finished the sentence with another fit of coughing.

Chara was worried. She forced herself to remain motherly and soothing, but inwardly she was going through all the possibilities. She had to ensure her sister's health remained in tact, for she could not really afford a Doctor. She had a huge chunk of savings for the midwife and Doctor who would assist in the labour, and she dared not touch it.

"Don't be silly, Marianne, you must eat. It is not only you who needs nourishing," she stood to walk out.

But Marianne interrupted her quietly, "Do you like the name Theodore, Chara?"

Chara stopped and turned back, "Well…It is a name…A nice name I suppose. Why do you ask?" she dreaded asking the question the moment the words were spoken. She knew why.

Her sister looked at her sheepishly, "I think I will name my boy that."

Chara knew it would hurt Marianne even before she said it, and inside she cringed, but she _had_ to press upon the fact that any allusion to keeping the baby was preposterous, so she said, "Don't you think the couple whom will adopt the infant, have the right to name it when it is born, as they are the ones who will raise it?"

She stepped out of the room as quickly as she could so she would not have to see the consequences of those words on Marianne's pretty face. It had to be done. It would be easier in the short-term to agree or answer her sister's question in the way that Marianne wanted, but this would only encourage her silly thoughts and further the bond between Mother and child and that would be damaging. Incredibly damaging.

She brought the eggs in and watched as her sister reluctantly finished every bit. It was an awkward meal as Chara sensed a rift of resentment begin to grow between them. Marianne barely looked at her and when she finished her breakfast she lay back down, her back towards her. Chara sighed, and sat on the edge of the bed, her fingers tracing her sister's arm fondly, and tried to ignore it as Marianne moved her arm away.

Chara lowered her eyes, trying to think of anything to say. She did not like having to leave her sister after a quarrel.

"Are you not going to ask how my stroll with Monsieur Morreaux went last night?" she finally asked and was inwardly pleased when Marianne slowly moved to her back and looked at her.

"Do you love him?" she asked quietly.

Chara laughed outright, "Of course I do not love him. I barely know him. It was…An interesting walk…" her voice trailed.

She noticed small tears running down Marianne's face, but she made no sound as she wept, "I love Paulus still, Chara. You may think I am simple and foolish, but I do know what love is. Contrary to what you may think, I am not a whore. I have only ever been to bed with one man."

Chara sighed, "I don't want to talk about this right now Marianne."

"Of course you don't, you never want to talk about what I feel is important," Marianne answered bitterly, but then after a pause, "Whatever is that mark upon the side of your neck?"

Chara's hand moved to her neck and then she remembered as her fingers touched the sensitive broken skin, "Oh! Oh, that was from last night!"

Marianne gave her such a look of shocked anger that it took a moment for Chara to interpret it, and then she scolded her sister angrily, "Oh for goodness sake, get your mind from the gutter you little fool. It was from the beads of your necklace, it broke and –"

"It broke?" Marianne sat up, "Where is it?"

"Oh, um…It must still be in his lodging. It must have fallen, Marianne, stop giving me that look!"

Marianne coughed some more but managed to hiss, "Oh I _wonder_ how it could have broken. In a moment of _passion?_ How else would a sturdy chain break like that, in his home at night? Here I was, thinking that Chara was above mortal ardour such as that! So, I suppose the frigid icy wench is the same as the rest of us after she has had a couple of glasses of wine at dinner."

Chara stood stiffly, "I will go and find and return the necklace to you. You sleep some more and hopefully when you wake you will be in better spirits and in better health."

Chara removed herself from the room in a state of shock with nothing further to add. Her cheeks were warmed, but she did not know why. Nothing had _happened_ last night, there was no need to feel like a common hussy when she had done nothing and the person who had accused her of wrongdoing was a silly little child, bitter and unhappy from the fact that she had allowed herself to get into a state of unwed pregnancy!

"And that I will once again be submissive to you without question?!" she overheard Marianne yell in between a fit of coughs as Chara departed the apartment.

Chara wandered the streets unsettled. This was the second quarrel that they had had in two days. They had barely fought seriously or maliciously before. Marianne was becoming ill, that house was a wreck, those had been the last eggs she had and she barely had any more money.

She was tripping down those darkened stairs of the cathedral by herself, breathing heavily. She screamed out loud as a hand from the shadows grabbed her to steady her balance, but then she clutched to the figure harder.

"Monsieur, please, I need a new apartment for my sister and I need one now. I need a bit of money – there are so many things, so many responsibilities. You are a man," she swallowed uneasily as she continued, "I am a woman. I am not naïve, but neither have I done this before. Are there any…Any _needs_ that I can cater for you in payment?"

She blinked in surprise at his answer. It was not _precisely_ the answer that she expected from a man who had been deprived of human contact and womanly love, but then she supposed it made more sense…

"I want a wife. A respectable wife. One who will listen to me play music. One who will prepare dinner for me and hold my hand as we eat. One who will not recoil from me," his voice deepened to a firmer note, "If I wanted a whore I could buy one. A wife has far more responsibilities than a common prostitute, therefore it is a heavier price to pay. A wife is supposed to love her husband. You Mademoiselle Chara, are not a whore. If you want my help, my means and my protection you _will love me._ If you care for your sister, you will pay that price. Or your foolish sister can welcome the streets for all I care."

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Chara closed the lid of the jewellery box after placing the broken necklace back and stood once she had finished packing her luggage. She moved out of the room and stood in the doorway of the sitting-room, watching Erik sitting on the lounge, cradling a now sleeping Gabriel in his arms. It seemed that the boisterous young lad had finally worn himself out. Chara hoped that that would last during the duration of most of the trip, he could be such a restless boy when there was nothing much to do. So like his Father. How was it that she could be bitter about the man she was married to, but at the same time acknowledging to herself that she was proud that her little boy took after the man in so many ways? So clever, with so much potential.

Erik looked up at his wife, his eyes full of so much dread when he realised the time was approaching for his family to depart.

"Just a few more moments, Erik," she said soothingly, and pleased he turned his face away from her and back down to watching his sleeping heir.

Oh, he would _not_ be pleased with her when he discovered what she had done, but it had to be so, she knew as she walked through the house to his cabinet. She unlocked it with a key in the bookshelf he was not aware that she knew about and took out the half dozen bottles of whisky and rum and Vodka and silently left the house to the garden, where one by one she emptied the contents of the bottles without ceremony. Oh, she knew how he would cope. He would get as drunk as he could and either drink himself to near death or come after her and do something stupid. A few bruises in her arms that she had had in the past, was enough reminder for her that Monsieur Erik Morreaux was _not_ a happy drunk.

She discarded the bottles and then went outside the front when she heard a carriage rumble up. Josef was beside the driver and he jumped down and went inside when she told him about the luggage. She stood there and Erik emerged very, very slowly, Gabriel's face resting on his shoulder as he slumbered, Erik's hand encircling his back gently.

"You will return to me?" was all he said after Josef had placed all the luggage inside the carriage.

Chara sighed tiredly and answered, a little less enthusiastically than she probably should have, "Oh Erik, why ask silly questions? For don't I always return to you?"

Erik grunted in reply and when she went to collect Gabriel from him, he moved away suddenly, holding the boy firmer.

"Oh Erik, please don't make this harder than it has to be," she tried to say calmly.

"Harder than it _has_ to be?" he began to laugh coldly, but on the verge of panic, "The second world that I have built is leaving me, just as the first did. My second world, my second universe…" he began to pace, making odd sounds as he cried, holding his little one.

Josef approached them uncertainly, but Chara held out her hand shaking her head. It had to be in Erik's time, it always had to be.

"You have no idea," Erik was snarling, "No goddamned idea how I crumbled the morning you came and offered yourself to me. You have never thought or bothered to ask what happened through my eyes. And before you go, before you go to Holland and disappear, you will listen to me. If you leave me, you will have the knowledge of events that happened between us through my eyes. Because this little one is just like me, don't you understand?"

He was rambling in a nonsensical frenzy, she knew it. Either that or he was trying to buy more time to hold his son. It hardly mattered, both ways meant the same thing. She had to wait for him. It was all in his time.

She took out some gold and gave it to Josef to give to the driver to come back later. It would be a long night.

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	17. Chapter 14

Thank you, guys! Crappest piece of crappy crap I've ever written in my life but this chapter's been plaguing me for weeks and I give up.

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**Chapter Fourteen.**

The carriage was rolling away as Erik was cradling his boy in his embrace. The child stirred slightly, but enticed by his Father's restful hold he drifted back to sleep. Erik stared at the woman he was married to, and could not take his eyes away from her. She was watching him cautiously, and anger surged through him when he thought that maybe she was uncertain about him holding Gabriel. That she thought in his current state he might hurt his own son.

She confirmed this line of thought when she held out her arms, "Please Erik, let me hold him."

She visibly bristled when he spat at her, "Why? Do you think I would harm my own flesh and blood?"

She raised her chin and stared at him, saying snippily, "For goodness sake, you wanted to talk; I would have thought it would be more meaningful to dispose of the distractions and lay him in the sitting-room as we speak," she sighed and her hands moved to cover her face. She looked so weary and withdrawn, a jab of guilt passed through him, "I don't want to argue Erik. Do what you like."

He closed his eyes and sighed himself, giving in. With the unmasked side of his face he nuzzled his son's soft cheek and held him out to the boy's Mother. She took the lad and entered the house and he moved over to the lawn where he sat waiting.

He intentionally ignored Josef, who was standing in the shadows as if lost and uncertain what to do now that the carriage had gone. The colours of his patched coat looked ridiculous; and another jab of annoyance flared through him that his little boy had given the damned gypsy gardener the identity of Joseph from the Old Testament with the colourful coat. Oh how Erik would like to throw him in prison like Potiphar. He was no fool; of course he noticed those dark eyes of Josef's trailing over his wife in carnal want when she was not looking.

He remembered that day when he had told Chara what exactly it was he wanted in payment.

He remembered his words: _"I want a wife. A respectable wife. One who will listen to me play music. One who will prepare dinner for me and hold my hand as we eat. One who will not recoil from me. If I wanted a whore I could buy one. A wife has far more responsibilities than a common prostitute, therefore it is a heavier price to pay. A wife is supposed to love her husband. You Mademoiselle Chara, are not a whore. If you want my help, my means and my protection you will love me. If you care for your sister, you will pay that price. Or your foolish sister can welcome the streets for all I care."_

He had thought about it for quite awhile those years ago, even before she had offered herself to him. The moment she had begun tending to him when he was ill, infact. Marriage was companionship, was it not? They enjoyed each other's company. He appreciated her grace, her smile, her soft hands, the maternal care she had. And she enjoyed conversing with him; she enjoyed his music, his stories.

When a heart went so long with being lonely, it can grow fond quite easily. He could love her if he tried, he knew that. He had steered his mind away from Christine and her chocolate curls and her voice…That could never be. But to rebuild became more of a temptation the older he became. To have a home, to devote himself to a wife, to play the piano in natural light rather than being pooled by candlelight. Ordinary delights for an ordinary man. To decorate a Christmas tree, to lie beside a woman while she slept…To be _needed._ Simple things he had always craved for.

Was it terribly bad in a way, that when she had raced down to him that day, offering herself to him, that inwardly he had felt jubilant and pleased that he did not even have to fight for her? That for once a woman was pleading for him? And such a pretty woman too. She did not give herself any credit. Her sister was fair-faced it was true, with golden curls and a mouth that would make any man fantasize about kissing it, but Chara's beauty was more subtle. A man could walk past without being drawn to look, the same as a man could walk past a lost piece of pretty jewelry on the pavement without noticing it, but it was the fortunate man that was able to glance at her. While a man would do anything to be able to touch her sister, he would rather have the fortune of Chara's soft hands on his weary brow. Marianne would suit a stage with an adoring audience, but Chara, dear Chara, she would fit perfectly in a sitting-room of a home, her head on his knee as she sat at his feet by the fire. Chara would complete a home, and a home was what he wanted.

He remembered holding her in the dark after he had stated the price she would pay for his assistance. The dark had its uses, for he could analyse her features but she could not see him.

Her mouth moved before she said quietly, "You wish for me to marry you, Monsieur Morreaux?"

His hand slipped from her arm to her hand, his fingers entwining through hers as he brought it to his lips. She did not shudder at the coldness of his touch and for that he had the courage to continue, "I want you to love me. I don't wish for marriage alone, the same as a man would not want to eat a meal that is cold."

"Well, but of course," she said slowly, weighing what he wanted, "That seems reasonable. You are a reasonable man, only…"

"Only?" he pressed her, genuinely curious with what she wanted to say. She was considering this, _really_ considering it and it made his stomach jolt. She was not saying yes straightaway without a thought. Of course he knew her eventual answer would be a yes, for her sister's sake, but the fact she was putting thought into it gave him hope that their eventual union could be a _sincere_ one.

"You use the dark to your advantage," she said with surprising astuteness and gestured around her, "And I don't just mean the lack of light. You try to weave mystery around yourself and how can I love you, if I don't know you at all? How can I love you when you don't even want me to see you?"

He moved back away from her and he could see her startled look as his presence left her. She reached out trying to grasp him and for a few moments he ignored her as he lit life and light into the room, so she could see.

He discarded the used match to the floor and gazed at her, "I cannot promise you will like what you will see, Mademoiselle Chara."

"I think you are not aware of the things I _do_ see," she said coyly, and moved over to him, taking his arms and slipping them around her waist, "There is certainly something about you that I find most intriguing."

She hesitantly looked up, her hand tracing his cheekbone. She placed her fingers on her lips; then moved them to his own in a gentle show of affection, "You have my word. I will become your wife and we will learn to love each other."

He closed his eyes as a painful lump formed in the back of his throat, and his arms moved up her back and he pulled her in to a tight embrace. He could not breathe properly, but it hardly mattered as he breathed in the scent of her. He could barely think when for the first time in _years_ he was beginning to _feel._ Not love, for in spite of the foolish rubbish that littered bookshops, love was not a superficial emotion that could be switched on and off on a whim. It wasn't even merely about the woman in his arms. It was about everything. It was about sensation; it was about noticing the beating of his heart. But why on earth was a simple, modest gesture from a chaste woman causing all of this?

"What on earth will you succeed in doing to me by the time the day is through, Mademoiselle?" he murmured in her hair, and was surprised that when she chuckled, he joined in too.


	18. Chapter 15a

**Thank you so much you guys! I know it's a divided chapter, sorry, more soon.****

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****Chapter 15A.**

So it had been arranged those years ago, Erik remembered, they were to be wed, he and the Mademoiselle Chara. Though at that particular time, it was still unofficial. No ring decorated her hand yet, as she insisted it was to be all done proper. She insisted he ask her Father like any prospective suitor would and of course he readily agreed to that. Chara also insisted that he live in the accommodation that he had bought for Marianne and on the lower level conduct an honest business – and of course he obliged to this whim of his sweetheart's by starting a sculpture and portrait trade.

She was pleased and a little surprised when it began to flourish quickly, after initially having doubts that starting a business in what she deemed "frivolous trinkets that were not necessities" not the most prudent choice to make. He remembered feeling a jab of affection when standing by a sculpture of his that had been sold to a foreign merchant, she said she was proud of him. He remembered that memory, taking note that he must savour every detail – the crinkle in her blue gown, the slight flush in her cheeks, her hand tracing the carved ebony of the horse reared on its hind legs, black waves of a created ocean of wood swirling around.

"I am so very proud of you," she had said fondly, "You are an amazing man. Whatever you touch; thrives. You have the Midas touch."

He had taken her hand just to cup in his own, but she took this as an invitation to move forward and rest her head on his chest. She seemed to fit there, with his chin on her crown, but this time her face moved up to his. She looked at him tentatively as she took his face with her hands and pecked a kiss on his mouth. Then the flush in her cheeks deepened and she hid her face on his chest again. His arms wrapped around her small frame, trying to remain composed. A kiss, a gentle soft kiss. She had given him a _kiss._

"Such a pretty shade of pink adorns your cheeks," he murmured, "I would quite like to see it again."

He tried to lift her chin but she laughed and held him tighter, her face unmoving.

Everything was just so _normal_ that it felt _abnormal._ He squeezed her gently and surveyed the room. He had chosen well, this new dwelling. It was on the street so Marianne could watch the passerbyers as she spent her days in her room, unable to go out. The furnishings were luxurious, it was foolish to try and deny it, but he had spent so many years saving away a fortune, he had been like a child choosing rugs, choosing tables and chairs, choosing bookshelves, choosing a bed. Not a coffin that he had thought amusingly ironic in his younger years, not a theatre set piece in the form of a swan that he had once fitted together for his Christine, not a meagre pallet that he was used to sleeping in for years on a stone floor. No, a _bed!_ A _proper_ bed. A four poster bed, carved from deeply rich oak with a soft goose feather mattress, a canopy of dark forest green with black tulle lace. The bed of a king, which would eventually be his marital bed where his young bride would not be able to conceal any shades of pink, where everything would be revealed to him, the ultimate right of a man. Where the only thing that would separate their uniting bodies was the necessary scrap of white on his face…

Her sister had been living upstairs in her own room for a month or so, and her growing bulge was certainly unmistakeable now. She worried Chara however…This change of scenery was supposed to be beneficial to her health…And in a way yes, she had improved – she wasn't as pale, she ate well, was not ill…But she was beginning to grow more and more withdrawn. She used to be so eager in taking her night's walk, but now she couldn't be convinced every day to move from her rocking chair, where she sat; her hands over her belly.

There had been one terrible afternoon…The priest had brought an interested couple over. They were older and had been deprived of children of their own after the wife had suffered several miscarriages. The wife had been excited, barely able to remain composed as she shifted from one foot to the other, her arm tucked neatly under her husband's.

"An unfortunate turn of events for the girl, to be sure," the woman nodded to Erik as he stood in the corner of the room, "But it is our Christian duty to help, and…" she stopped surprised as Chara came down from the stairs alone, hesitantly.

"Do forgive me," she said tightly, obviously embarrassed, "But my sister will not come down…It…Well, she does tire easily…If you please, could you come up yourselves?"

The wife could barely be restrained as she rushed forward, "Of course! How thoughtless of us! Expecting a pregnant woman to come down these stairs, we mustn't exert her, it could harm the baby!"

They all moved upstairs and Erik stood outside the room, watching as Chara led them into the bedroom where Marianne did not move an inch from the window, her face turned away from them.

"Marianne, _please…"_ Chara begged with a hiss, and slowly the girl did turn her face to them, rivulets of tears pouring down her face.

"Oh my!" the woman said in an excited flurry, her hands flying to her face, "What a lovely girl! Such a pretty little thing, with delicate features! And those gold curls, like a doll's. The infant will be beautiful!"

She seemed not to notice the fact that the expectant mother was distraught in her blind delight and came over to inspect her, "Is she eating enough meat?" she asked but did not wait for a reply before she went on further, "And look at those lovely eyes! If it's a girl, she will become the most sought out maiden in Holland!"

Marianne muttered something that the woman actually did take note of, however, the detection of hatred proved a little too elusive for her as she said excitedly; "You believe it to be a boy? Well, you know what they say about the instincts of a mother! You could very well be right!"

Marianne turned her face away as it contorted in agony, and the silent tears turned to heaving sobs. Fortunately this led the woman to step back uncertainly and Chara moved forward, bending down to whisper encouraging words. But Marianne violently pushed her away, her voice cracking as she shrieked, "I _hate_ you Chara! You are a cruel, cruel beast and God will punish you for this! A child should never be taken away from its mother as if – as if the mother is a _bitch_ with an unwanted _litter!_ God will punish you for forcing me to do this! I hope one day God punishes you so that you feel what you're making me feel!" then she covered her face with her hands and bawled with unbridled rage, shaking terribly.

Chara moved away herself weakly, covering her own face. Erik rushed over to her, but she pulled away from him, leaning against a wall, muttering hoarsely herself, "It hurts me too Marianne, but it must be done! For God's sake, let your child have a chance!"

Erik should have moved faster, he realised his error a moment too late. The foolish woman, trying to kindly placate the young girl bent down, her hand grasping Marianne's over her belly. It was just a moment, but in that moment came a rush of blood as Marianne's fist knocked the woman's nose. The woman let out a cry and fell back. Her husband cried out and rushed forward, cradling his wife in his embrace.

"Is she mad?!" he barked at Chara who was rooted to the spot in utter shock.

"Yes!" Marianne snarled, "Madness is rampant through our family! Did my sister not tell you that in the hurry to try and sell my child to you?!"

"No please, don't believe her! She's angry, she's lying to – please!" Chara rushed after the couple who were leaving quickly with the priest apologising fervently.

* * *


	19. Chapter 15B

Thanks very much you two!

After this chapter, it's back to the present.

**Chapter 15B.**

Erik took one look at Marianne who seemed as if she would like to melt into the flowers in the wallpaper at that moment after her outburst, and filling with dread he left the room and leaned over the railing of the staircase, hearing Chara pleading with the couple and the priest at the front door. Soon her words ceased as it seemed there was no use trying to placate them and the door closed. Dread crept from the pit of Erik's stomach and began to grow, as well as immense pity. The poor, _poor_ girl…All that effort...

But it was no crying victim or sobbing damsel in distress who threw herself back up the stairs – the creature who emerged was like a wild spitfire, her hair tousled in fury, her eyes ablaze. Erik moved to the front of the door of the pregnant girl's room uncertainly, a moment before she reached it.

Chara looked up at him, her low hiss dripping with venom as she spat, "Move aside."

"I don't think it wise –" he tried to pacify Chara.

She was much shorter than he, but for a moment – in spite of the fact they did not resemble each other much physically speaking – she reminded him of a young and furious Antoinette Giry, a friend (could he really call her a friend?) that he had not seen or heard of in many, many years. He did not realise his hand lifted in that moment of reminiscing, to touch the girl's hair in fond recollection, until Chara pushed it away impatiently and he was brought back to the present roughly.

"You do not think it _wise?"_ she snarled at him, "I don't care what you may think of this situation, she is my sister and this is none of your concern!"

A thought rolled through Erik's head at this moment, and wisely he decided to keep it to himself instead of divulging it in this heated occasion, but _why_ was it that when it came to women, matters apparently did not concern others only when it suited them? They were very odd, these female creatures, it must be because he had lived many years in solitude, but he wondered if he would ever understand them, like surely other men did.

"Let her in!" he heard Marianne say behind him, "She's only going to give me one of her many sanctimonious lectures! I feel I need the sleep, so she will prove to be useful!"

It was just as well Erik decided he had better move, for she probably would have given him injury had he not. She burst into the room as he stepped aside.

"Oh!" she laughed, almost maniacally, "So my little sister has learned a big word! _Sanctimonious!_ And she used it in a sentence too, all proper and correct! Brava for you, smart child, it's such a shame I don't have a chocolate with me to reward you!"

Erik turned cautiously, watching the two sisters in battle. Marianne raised her chin and folded her arms, "You don't know _anything_ about me! I read Father's books too growing up!"

"The ones with the pictures?" Chara shot back.

Marianne said nothing and began to pace the small room, "I don't need to argue with you, I have more important matters to talk about."

"Oh _yes,_ let us discuss _more important matters,_ what a _brilliant_ idea," Chara said, "Let us discuss the fact that you barely escaped being charged with assault for attacking that poor woman – !"

"That _poor_ woman?" Marianne replied disgustedly, "More like a viper! I could feel her eyes on me and they felt like weeds – ha, I'm using an _analogy_ and one _you_ should appreciate since you're so obsessed with goddamned gardens, see? I'm not as simple minded as you think – twisting and coiling and wrapping around me. That witch shouldn't be anywhere near children!"

"She's _desperate_ Marianne! She's desperate to love a child, and you just threw her out! Madness in the family, oh that was a good thought! What else have you thought of to scare all the other prospective parents?" Chara covered her face weakly, "You don't _think_ Marianne! If you frighten away all the people who could love and raise your child well, he will end up in an orphanage! Alone, abandoned, unloved – as that is the only choice you will have for him!"

It seemed that nothing of what Chara said went through Marianne at all, as she responded with a startled, "You acknowledged my baby as a he!"

Chara blinked confused, then threw up her hands, "Don't be absurd, I didn't mean anything by _that!"_

"Of course you didn't," Marianne sighed, moving over to the rocking-chair and sat down, "I don't know what to do Chara. I know it is impossible to keep my child, but it is impossible to abandon him too. He's a piece of me. I never thought about anybody other than myself until I first felt him kick…"

Marianne looked so forlorn and lost for that moment, till Chara chuckled, "Well that is obvious, you have only ever thought about yourself."

Marianne looked at Chara, her blue eyes hurt, "I am trying to describe to you how I feel, and you still mock me!"

"Because it is all so trivial, all so juvenile – I can barely listen to it," Chara wrung her hands, "I know I am hurting you, but what else am I supposed to do?"

"Do you realise," Marianne murmured as she closed her eyes, "That you sound very repetitive?"

Erik decided at that moment he needed to step in when he recognised Chara's eyes burning as she glided the five steps to her sister and pulled back her hand to strike her. Erik took her hand and spun her around, so she fell back into his build, "That's enough Chara. You have made your point!"

She cried out and tried to angrily pull away from him, "How _dare_ you?" but his grip on her was tight.

She cursed him and stomped on his foot which resulted in him grunting an expletive, but he would not let go. It was similar to an awkward little dance as she tried to pull herself away from him, and he managed to still be a few steps in front of her.

"Enough!" she almost screamed in frustration, "Enough! Leave me alone, you have no right!"

"You are wrong," this time he grabbed both her arms and shook her, "I understand everything you are feeling, but you are turning yourself into a child."

A burst of anger flew through him as she ignored him, and letting go of her arms he grabbed her waist and hauled her over his shoulder.

There was silence in the room for just one moment as Marianne stood in shock at how he had handled Chara, and Chara herself was stunned into silence for the moment before she started kicking, and pummelling his back, "Release me! Damn you, release me now!"

A fleeting smug look passed across Marianne's face and he answered it by pointing to her, "You are next, girl. I will deal with you the moment after I settle your sister!"

She looked at him and shrugged, his reprimand clearly not having the desired effect as she almost purred, "Don't make her scream too much, Monsieur Morreaux, my baby and I are due for another nap."

Erik had to turn around to move from the room as Chara shouted angrily, "You wench! I would never do something so stupid! I would never want to even slightly resemble you! I'll strike you till you're black and blue you pitiful child!"

"You would just rather have your heart turn to frost!" came Marianne's heated reply.

"Erik! Put me down! It's time she learned respect for her elder sister! Put me down!"

Erik was out the door as Marianne left them with her last retort, "At least I'm not frigid and without passion! I've known a man's love and it's more than you'll ever receive with your chilled core!"

"I hope you're proud of yourself and I hope you learned everything you need to know, for receiving a man's love will be what you will have to do to earn a living if you keep your bastard, for you'll have no more help from me and Father will disown you the moment he finds out!"

By this time Erik was in his room, and he kicked his door shut with a slam and locked it before he dropped his furious love on the floor. His heart was racing, _dear God!_ they were worse than a pair of drunkards in a tavern! At least men's fights finished quickly with a few punches, women used their claws and refused to stop until their opponent's eyes were scratched out completely! This was _enough!_ Dealing with two impossibly stubborn and angry women was the most tiresome thing he had done in years!

The damned woman shoved past in a most unladylike fashion, aiming to try and open the door, even though the key was in his own pocket (it seemed that women seemed to lack sense in the heat of the moment too), but then she turned to him, and he almost had to step back as she turned her fury on him.

"You have no right, no goddamned right at all, you open the door now!"

He looked at her and managed to say calmly, "You may destroy my room, but you will not lay a hand upon your sister. You will regret that very much later, so I have taken it upon myself to _make it my right_ to control you while you are in such a state."

She was panting now as the adrenaline rushed through her, and as if to test what he had just said she went to his dressing-table and thrust off the contents on the tabletop, barely paying attention to the sound of a jar smashing on the floor. She then turned to him as if daring him to stop her, and when he did not but instead chose to watch her curiously she moved over to the other side of the room and kicked over a chair with his violin case on the seat. He had to stop himself from wincing as he thought of his precious instrument and then she went over to his chest of drawers and pulled out a few drawers hurtling the contents out in seething anger, his waistcoats, pants, shoes flying everywhere.

She turned to him once more, and began to tremble when she got no reaction from him in the slightest, and then slumped to the wooden floor, her back pressed to the bed as she began to heave silent tears. He was unsure of what to do, till she looked up and held out her arms to him, and in one or two steps he was beside her, pulling her into his arms and encircling her back in a lovingly tender manner.

"That was quite the show," he tried to say comfortingly, and was answered with the first noisy sob. They sat in silence as she leaned into him, and he rocked slowly, sharing this girl's pain.

"That miserable- That awful- That horrid- Insipid- Wretched- Foolish- That horrible, selfish, little brat!" she said in between sobs, and held him tighter as he rested his face in her hair. Her wild, untidy hair. His beautiful, furious bride-to-be.

It was all a terrible situation born from a tragedy, but God he _wanted_ her at that moment. He wanted all of her, and it wasn't any false image he had of a woman, but the real one in his arms. Her tangled hair, her tear-stained face, the blotches of unpleasant crimson on her face, her sniffling nose…Every single flaw, every single imperfection, he _wanted._

"I've had enough, I've tried so hard, but I can't do this anymore. I'm going to tell Father," she managed to say hoarsely.

He kissed her hair and answered with a patient, "No, you won't."

She hit his chest, but not hard and it was not meant to be malicious as she muttered, "I'm weary and tired of this, Erik. Six months, all due to her stupid mistake and I'm paying the price, chaining myself to someone for her!"

He pulled her back gently to stare at her face, and she realised what she said as her hand touched his face, "Oh no, I did not – I did not mean it in that way…I only meant…" then she burst into tears again.

He was smitten with her. _Smitten._ Was that the word? It sounded so petty, but it was the only word he could use to pinpoint his emotions. Smitten – like some dandy fop pouring tea for his maiden who twirled a parasol under the soft heat of the afternoon sun, by a lake with wild swans…He should buy Chara a parasol…

"I would…I would do my best to make you happy, you know," he murmured in her ear, a tingling passing through his body at the sheer _intimacy_ of the moment.

"Yes, yes of course," she sniffled, "You are a good man."

Frustration passed through him as he sat down on his bed and fell back, so that her front was pressed to his, "To Hell with being good," he almost growled.

She looked at him startled and her eyes widened as his hand circled down her back to her waist in a most ungentlemanly manner. He had never been able to touch a woman before like this – ignoring one other moment in his past – and he gently rolled her so he was over her as his hands explored the folds of her dress…

"We shouldn't…" she began but gasped as his mouth found her neck, "Oh but we…Shouldn't…"

Her hands tentatively unbuttoned his coat and he pulled it off as if it were a nuisance, revealing his white lawn shirt. Her hands stroked his arms and moved up to his broad shoulders where she then moved up and took his face and directed it to her own where she kissed his mouth, delighting in the way their lips met.

"We shouldn't…We shouldn't…" her voice continued to murmur, but her body disobeyed as she began to like the feel of a man's hands on her. All thoughts of her sister evaporated.

He could feel her fingers tugging at his mask, and he gently turned his face so she could have access to the perfect side of his face. She did not fight him and he moaned as her mouth kissed his skin.

"I notice you have dispensed with using the title Monsieur Morreaux," he murmured and she smiled at him shyly.

"I think after watching me dishevel your room, it –" she gasped when she felt something touch her lower regions. Indeed for one moment he felt humiliation too as he felt the proof of his desire for her, and he swallowed uneasily as she looked at and then looked away from the slight tenting in the front of his pants.

Then she began to giggle, "I suppose…We really have no choice but to marry now…" she then said and gently wriggled from underneath him, from his grasp.

"Come," she took his hand and they moved from the bed, from mysteries that were meant for their future that they would explore together later and not spoil now, but she stood on tiptoe as her mouth lingered once more over his, "You will make me happy, Erik, I have no doubt of it."

It was a very different woman who left the room. Somewhat calmer, somewhat more at peace and he regretted having to stay in the bedroom for a few moments to _compose_ himself before venturing down.

"Marianne, dear…" he heard Chara's apologetic voice, but then heard silence.

He supposed she was ignoring Chara - silly child - he –

_"ERIK!"_

The shrill cry of panic made Erik rush out as if on instinct and he met Chara in the hallway, in between his and Marianne's room. Her look of distress was back and any progress that was made in her mood destroyed as she flung out a note at him obviously written in a rush, "Dear God, we need to find her! She's gone to find Paulus of all people for help, the one who put her in this situation!"


End file.
